


A Dream of Spring

by FromTheBoundlessSea



Series: The Celiaverse [8]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Adopted Children, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arya Stark & Sansa Stark Have a Good Relationship, BAMF Arya Stark, Brother-Sister Relationships, Childhood Trauma, Dark Dany, F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Jon Snow is King in the North, Jon Snow is Not Called Aegon, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Mad Queen Daenerys Targaryen, Missandei Deserves Better (ASoIaF), Mother-Daughter Relationship, POV Jon Snow, POV Sansa Stark, Parent-Child Relationship, Political Jon Snow, Politics, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Arya Stark, Protective Jon Snow, Protective Sansa Stark, Sansa Stark is a Good Friend, Sassy Arya Stark, Sister-Sister Relationship, Trauma, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Warg Jon Snow, eventually, more tags to come
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:47:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 45,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26614696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FromTheBoundlessSea/pseuds/FromTheBoundlessSea
Summary: Celia’s ma had told her once of princesses who wore dresses that felt like running water and men with swords like polished stone. She had not thought much of it until she met the Crow that brought her people to the other side of the Wall. Until she saw witches of red and girls in grey.Now, she was living in a place called Winterfell and under the charge of its lady, a princess just like her ma’s stories.She likes the princess kissed by fire and the king crow who protected her from the monsters of ice. But now, dragons have come into the place she calls home and Celia does not know what she can do to protect the people she cares about when she hadn’t been big enough or strong enough to when the crows had come and killed her ma.
Relationships: Arya Stark & Sansa Stark, Gilly/Samwell Tarly, Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Jon Snow & Arya Stark, Jon Snow & Original Female Character(s), Jon Snow & Sansa Stark, Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Sansa Stark & Original Female Character(s)
Series: The Celiaverse [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1547251
Comments: 558
Kudos: 324
Collections: Game of Thrones





	1. Jon I

“Tormund!” 

“My princess!” 

A small girl bundled in furs rushed the giant man and threw herself into his arms as the wildling bent down to scoop her into his arms before pressing a kiss to her cheek. He purposefully rubbed his beard across her skin and the girl let out a peal of laughter. It was hard to believe that not even an hour ago the man had murdered one of the Free Folk. 

Tormund put her down and ruffled her hair, allowing Jon to get a better look at her. 

She could be no more than eight or nine, about the same age Bran was when Jon had left for the Night Watch. The girl had lightly sun kissed skin and a splatter of freckles across her cheeks. Her red hair curled in the cold and was held back by a simple braid, exposing her red cheeks and bright grey eyes. She reminded him a bit of Arya, almost, and yet he could see Sansa in her too. 

The thought of his sisters caused a chasm to grow in Jon’s stomach. He had to believe they were still alive. He had to believe that they were out there, somewhere safe. He had to believe it or he would go mad. He had lost his father, Robb, Bran, and RIckon. His sisters had to be alive or else he did not know what he would do. 

“Is this your daughter, Tormund?” Jon ask, his voice rough, but he hoped that the other man would think it was from the cold. 

“She’s a tad too pretty to be one of mine,” Tormund said, cupping the girl’s chin with his thumb and forefinger. “This one’s my brother’s lass. Celia, the little princess.” 

“That’s quite a southron name,” Jon said, smiling down at the girl as she held onto the giant man’s leg, looking up at him with bright eyes, smiling back. 

“Aye, my brother stole a girl from south of the Wall. The name was Sharra, wanted her girl to have a fancy name.” He knelt down to be at the girl’s level and, once more, Jon was shocked by the difference in the man’s behaviour towards the child. He wondered, briefly, if Ygritte would have been like this, yet, at the same time, he could not even imagine this. “You see this crow here?” Tormund said, pointing to him. “He’s of that House Stark your ma liked to harp on about.”

The girl wiggled slighlty and frowned, forcing herself to grow serious. “Winter is coming, she said, trying to make her voice deeper.” 

“Aye,” Jon said, not sure how else he might answer. “It is.” 

Tormund stood then. “Be on your way lass. Get your cousin to pack your things.” 

The girl nodded before sprinting off to wherever it was that Tormund had sent her. “Are your brother and his wife still here?”

“Killed two years ago by some rangers. Sharra could fight when she wanted to, like a lion trying to protect her cub. Celia’s been with me and mine ever since.” 

“I’m surprised she wasn’t afraid of me.” He thought of Olly, of his anger, his hatred. 

“She’s learned to spot those she can trust,” Tormund said with a shrug. “She’s a smart girl.” 

Jon grunted before turning to help prepare people to begin crossing onto the boats. 

—

Jon sat upon one of the boats, still shaking at the image burned into his mind. The dead rising, the king of the others lifting his hands like a singer about to perform a song before his lord and master, only for the song to spit in the face of the very home he had found dwelling. It made him sick. All this time, the Night Watch had kept the Free Folk on the other side of the Wall, letting this army of the undead grow with every person they lost. It was… It was different seeing it, knowing the people, even briefly, who had now joined the army of the Night King. Children had lost their mothers. Wives, their husbands. Parents, their children. Lost. Lost. 

If only he had come sooner. If only he had been able to get more to get on the boats. 

He opened his eyes from his seat on the boat and saw Tormund’s niece, Celia, had sat herself upon one of the crates, sitting cross legged upon it as other children, some younger than her, sitting below and around her in awe. 

“The golden lion of the Rock and the gardener of the Reach stood against the dragon’s invasion,” she said, her tone serious and her eyes glittered with memory. “They commanded 400 people, a thousand iron men on horses and ten thousand regular crows. Though the dragon, Aeron, was outnumbered, when he fled, the lion and the gardner were no match for the three dragons. Everyone but the lion was killed by the flames, so the lion knelt.” 

It took a moment for Jon to realize she was talking about the Field of Fire and of when King Loren Lannister had knelt to Aegon Targaryen. It was told as a child who had only heard the story once might speak of it. The numbers wrong and the names misremembered. It was so plainly spoken as well, as though it were only a story, something the children need not be frightened of. However, it was endearing, the way she told the story, the way she captivated the other children, letting the rattle of the battle at Hardhome slink into the back of their minds. 

“The wolves of the North didn’t want to bend to dragons, so they were going to fight. King Torrhen Stark led an army to do what the lion could not. But when the wolf saw the dragons, he couldn’t let his pack be burned, so he bowed to the dragon and made them their kings.” 

“She’s a smart one, isn’t she,” Edd said, sitting down beside Jon. Neither of them were boat men and had let the others more knowledgable of the art take charge. “Sam’s going to love her.”

A smile slipped onto Jon’s lips at the thought. “Sam would want to know everything.” Gilly’s experiences would no doubt differ from that of the girl’s. “I’m surprised he isn’t working on a book. The first complete history of the Free Folk or something like that.” 

Edd snorted. “He might have started on it while we were gone.” 

Jon smiled, closing his eyes again as he listened to Celia carry on about the world south of the Wall. 

—

“Are we going to go live in a castle like my ma used to?” Celia asked, walking between Tormund and Jon, bundled in fur and looking a little top heavy, as though she might fall over at the smallest of breezes. 

“Ain’t no castles to give you, lass,” Tormund told her. “The kneelers won’t be wantin’ us in their castles.”

Jon felt her small hand slip into his own as they reached the gates of the Wall. He looked down and found Celia looking up at him with wide innocent eyes. 

“Will we get to live in a castle, King Crow?”

He rubbed his thumb along the back of her hand. “You can stay with me,” he said it without thinking. A promise he had made once long ago, when he had first contemplated joining the Night Watch. It was with Arya or Bran, he could not remember. Jon squeezed Celia’s hand lightly. “Until Tormund can find you a castle of your own.” 

Perhaps he could find her mother’s family. Sharra. Perhpas he could find her southron family and give her a home, return to her the family he migh never get back. 

They stood before the wall, pausing, waiting to be let in. Jon held his breath as the gate was not opened. He thought of Karsi’s final words to him. If he were not here, if he had been killed and brought back by the Night King, would they open the gates? Would they even open them now?

Jon squeezed Celia’s hand and stepped forward, looking up at where he knew Thorne to be, waiting. 

But then the gates opened and Jon let out a sigh of relief. 

When they began to head inside and it was obvious that Celia would not let go of Jon’s hand, Tormund chuckled. “You’re a sight prettier than me, little crow,” the man said. “Looks like she’s chosen her southron knight her ma was always talking about. Look after her while we settle, yeah?”

So, that was how Jon found himself standing in Castle Black next to Sam, Celia’s face buried in his hip, his hand on her head, letting her know that he knew she was there. It felt natural, like somehting he would do for Arya, Bran or Rickon, something his father would do for him. It felt centering, considering all they had gone through, and yet…

“It was a failure,” Jon said queitly. 

“It wasn’t,” Sam tried to reasure him.

“I want to save them,” Jon said in a harsh whisper. “I failed.” 

Sam looked at him earnestly and began nodding to the Free Folk entering the castle.”You didn’t fail him, or him.” He nodded head towards Celia. “Or her. Every one of them is alive because of you, and no one else. You’ve done something no one else has ever done before.” 

Jon looked at his brothers. “I don’t think that fact’s lost on them.” 

He could see the way some of the brothers looked at the Free Folk and looked at him. Jon glanced up to the top of the stairs and saw Olly. The boy was scowling, his eyes alight with burning hatred and it made Jon’s heart sink.

—

Celia had taken residence of sorts in Jon’s room, sleeping near the fire, her arms wrapped around Ghost. Tormund had shuddered at the sight of the animal, but Celia didn’t seem to fear him, as though she understood that the direwolf wasn’t a threat. 

Her staying in Castle Black would only be temporary, until Tormund could properly situate himself. Jon was in no position to take care of a child, much less a girl. It was one thing for the Watch to take over looking after Olly, it was another to have Celia stay there. Jon trusted most of his brothers and Celia was but a child, but he knew there were men who would not care about that fact. 

At least Ghost seemed to watch over her. It was one less thing he had to worry about. 

Jon looked through the scrolls upon his desk, plans to how to route supplies, especially now that they had made their stance with Stannis clear. 

“Lord Comannder,” Olly said, coming into his rooms. “It’s one of the wildlings you brought back. Says he know your Uncle Benjen. Says he’s alive.” 

Jon stood up quickly, motioning for Celia to not worry as she began to stand too, curious of what was happening. “Are you certain he’s talking about Benjen?”

“Says he was a first Ranger,” Olly said. “Said he knows where to find him.” 

Jon’s heart pounded in his chest as he rushed from his room and raced down the stairs to the ground of the castle. Uncle Benjen could be alive. One bit of family that could be brought back to him. A piece of his life before his father had been beheaded, before the girls were taken hostage, before Bran and Rickon were killed, before Robb and Lady Stark were murdered. 

“Man says he saw your uncle at Hardhome the last full moon,” Thorne said, meeting him at the bottom of the stairs.

“He could be lying,” Jon said, trying to not allow his hopes up, not wishing for them to be raised, only for them to be squashed. 

“Could be,” Thorne admitted. “There are ways to find out.” 

“Where is he?” Jon asked. 

“Over there.” 

Jon walked towards a group of brothers holding torches. He wondered breifly if the man was injured. There were plenty of survivors who were still nursing wounds. Perhas he wished to trade information for a more knowledgable hand. Jon pushed through the line of men and found a sign nailed into a beam like a grave marker. 

_Traitor_

Jon turned and Thorne stood before him and stabbed him in the stomach. 

“For the Watch,” the older man said. 

He stepped back and another brother stabbed him in the chest. “For the Watch.”

Then another. “For the Watch.” 

Another. “For the Watch.”

And another. “For the Watch.”

Jon fell to his knees, blood and bile rising in his throat as he struggled against the sharp pain

that was bleeding into his skin. Hot iron spread into his blood as he felt himself turn grey, as he felt himself grow dizzy and delirious against the weight of the falling snow. 

Olly stepped forward and for a moment, he saw Bran, young and whole. But no, this was Olly.

“Olly…” 

The boy’s face shifted between anger and heartbreak until it settled into a forced sneer as the boy’s dagger went into his chest. “For the Watch.” 

Jon fell completely then, onto his back as the stars, red and blurred shone above him. Red, like her hair. Robb, snowflakes melting in his hair. _Kill the boy and let the man be born._ Bran, clambering up the walls so he might see as the birds did. Rickon’s breathless laughter as he ran about the yard. Sansa, brushing out Lady’s coat and singing to herself. _High in the halls… You know nothing, Jon Snow._ Arya wild and free… 

Jon’s gaze slipped as his head fell to the side and he saw Celia upon the top of the stairs screaming. A child like Sansa was when the Lannisters killed Lady. A child like Arya was when she watched Mycha die. A child like Bran was when he fell. A child like Rickon was when he died. A child like Robb was when he became king. 

The brother’s of the Night Watch climbed the stairs, drawing close to her, rushing to her as though she were one of the shieldmaidens trying to breach their walls. He saw a knife, still red with his blood. 

“Ghost,” Jon whispered. 

Celia’s scream echoed in his head as the taste of blood entered his mouth and the cries of those who betrayed him, echoed in his ears as he dragged Celia back into the safety of his den. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys like the beginning of this new fic! It will be much more Jonsa centered then my other fics, but it works!
> 
> Celia is about 8-9 in this fic.
> 
> And don’t worry, Jon isn’t going to stay dead or in Ghost.


	2. Celia I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a trailer for this fic [HERE](https://fromtheboundlesssea.tumblr.com/post/630249391807135745/a-dream-of-spring)

Celia pressed her face into Ghost’s fur, her arms wrapped tightly around his neck as bitter tears slid down her cheeks, the tang washing away the even more bitter taste of blood upon her tongue. The cut from the crow’s blade upon her cheek stung, but everything else felt numb, save for the warmth of Ghost as he licked at her as best he could from his position. 

The image of Jon Snow bleeding out into his namesake was burned into her mind as she closed her eyes even tighter to forget it. 

Snow had always meant that something bad was going to happen. It meant the Cold Ones were coming, the storm their warning to all those who still walked with their own head. Their eyes blue and clear like a cloudless sky. Beautiful, horrible, dead. 

Ghost’s fur stood on end as he turned towards Jon Snow’s door and growled, his lips curling, his baring his fangs to threaten any who entered. It only stopped when those at the door came through. 

Celia peeked out from Ghost’s fur and saw the long faced gentle crow who gave her sweets cleaning off the table of maps. Another crow came in, holding Jon Snow’s body and put him on the table. The gentle crow, Edd, looked at Jon Snow and breathed harshly through his nose, setting his hands upon Jon Snow’s face and shut his eyes. 

“Thorne did this,” he said harshly. 

“How many of your brothers do you think you can trust?” the elderly man with the strange accent asked. Jon Snow had told her he was from the far south where it never snowed and it was as warm as a fire without the flames. 

“Trust?” Edd asked. “The men in this room.” He suddenly looked to her and Celia pressed herself further against Ghost, only her wide eyes peering at him from the white fur. 

“Does the wolf know you?” the old man asked. He was a knight. Jon had told her. A knight like one of her ma’s stories. He must have been a knight from a good story for he was alive. Her mother said bad knights always died because all good stories ended with the bad knights dying. Something had been said, but Celia missed it. The old knight knelt beside the desk, but not too close, leaving her some space to breathe. “Are you alright, lass?” Ghost licked her hand and Celia looked up at the knight and the man’s face darkened. “Did they hurt you?” 

Celia nodded, not sure how to speak. 

The knight drew closer, but Ghost snarled, although not dangerously. 

“We just want to help her,” Edd said. 

The knight took out white cloth with a black stag upon a yellow field embroidered on it. “Put this to your cheek, lass,” the man said gently as Celia hesitantly took it and did as he said. “It doesn’t look to be too deep a cut, but keep it there until we can get a better look at it. Okay?”

Celia nodded. 

A knock came to the door and Celia pressed her face back into Ghost’s neck as swords were drawn. A woman’s voice came from outside. “Ser Davos.” 

Things were quiet for a moment as Celia heard the swords slide back into their sheathes. The door opened and Celia peeked out and saw the red woman glide into the room, her beautiful features paling at the sight of Jon Snow’s body. 

“I saw him in the flames,” she said softly. Celia wondered if they were the same flames that burned Mance. “Fighting at Winterfell.” 

The word was odd to Celia, and yet, it felt like a soft word, a gentle word. She thought that perhaps she had heard Jon Snow say it. 

“I can’t speak for the flames,” the knight, Ser Davos, said. “But he’s gone.” 

Ghost’s muscles tensed beneath Celia’s arms as she rested her uninjured cheek upon his fur. He licked at her hand carefully as the red woman left as though she had been smoke. 

“He’ll have seen we didn’t come,” Ser Davos said. “Thorne will have made it official by now. Castle Black is his.” 

“I don’t care who’s sitting at the high table,” Edd said sharply. “Jon was my friend and those fuckers butchered him. Now, we return the favor.” 

“We don’t have the numbers,” the knight said plainly. 

“We have a direwolf,” one of the men said. 

“It’s not enough,” the knight continued. “I didn’t know Lord Commander Snow for long, but I have to believe he wouldn’t want his friends to die for nothing.” 

Die. 

Gone. 

Dead. 

Just like her parents. 

Die.

Gone.

Dead.

Celia was lost. She was alone. The muffled voices of the adults talking faded away as she closed her eyes and let herself dream. Of the stone walls of a place she had never been. 

—

A knock came to the door, pulling Celia from her sleep, from the embrace of a man and a woman she could not remember, could no longer recognize. It had felt like her ma though.

“Ser Davos,” the harsh crow’s voice came from beyond the door. Celia’s cheek stung and she curled in on herself, drawing closer to Ghost as his fur began to stand on end. “We have no cause to fight. We are both anointed knights.” 

It was a lie. Bad knights always died. Jon Snow would not have been killed by a bad knight. Her ma said bad knights always died because that was the justice south of the Wall. Her ma had whispered that it was where women did not fear being stolen. It was a land where bad knights were defeated and vanquished and where good knights triumphed. Triumphed like Jon Snow did when he brought her people south of the Wall. When he had killed a Cold One with his pale sword. 

“Hear that, lads?”Ser Davos asked, his voice gruff and bitter. “Nothing to fear.” 

“I will grant amnesty to all brothers who throw down their arms before nightfall,” the bad crow said. “And you, Ser Davos, I will allow you to travel south, a free man with a fresh horse.” 

The good knight was quiet for a moment. “And some mutton,” he said. “I’d like some mutton.” 

“What?” the voice asked. 

“I’m not much of a hunter,” the knight said humbly. “I’ll need some food if I’m gonna make it south without starving.” 

The world was quiet again. It was as though it had taken a breath, and it left Celia feeling uneasy. This was not like the arguments laid out between the Free Folk. This was like a predator stalking its prey, slowly circling until it could pounce. Like a vulture, waiting for an animal to die. 

“We’ll give you food,” the bad crow said. “You can bring the red woman with you if you like. Or you can leave her here with us, whichever you choose.” 

“And the wildling child?” Ser Davos asked.

Celia tensed at being mentioned. Ghost growled lowly, the sound rolling against the ground like a river.

_A boy of six and ten grabbing her, pulling her hair as he held his over her mouth._

_“Just stay quiet, just stay quiet,” his breath hot and rotting against her neck as she struggled against him, tears streaming down her cheeks as she tried to scream for her ma, tried to scream for Tormund, tried to scream for anyone. His hand moving from her hair as he dragged her away._

_She managed to move her face, opening her mouth and screaming, screaming until he tried to quiet her again and she bit down on his hand, hard until the tang of blood entered her mouth._

_Tormund had split his head open with an ax_

She began to cry softly into Ghost’s fur. Tormund wasn’t there to save her and neither was Jon Snow. 

“You can take her as well,” the bad crow said. “But surrender by nightfall or this ends with blood.” 

“Thank you, Ser Alliser,” Ser Davos said slowly. “We’ll discuss amongst ourselves and come back to you with an answer.” Everything was quiet and the good knight turned to the other men in the room. It was then that Celia realized that Edd was gone. “Boys, I’ve been running from men like that all my life. In my learned opinion, we open that door—”

“And they’ll slaughter us all,” a man said, angry. Celia shrank from his voice and buried her face back into Ghost’s fur. 

“They want to come in, they’re going to come in,” the second man said.

“Aye,” Ser Davos said. “But we don’t need to make it easy for them.” 

“Edd is our only chance,” said the second man.

“It’s a sad fucking statement if Dolorous Edd is our only chance,” said the first. 

“There’s always the red woman,” Ser Davos said. 

“What’s one redhead gonna do against forty armed men?”

“You haven’t seen her do what I’ve seen her do.” Ser Davos turned to her. “Come here, sweet girl,” he said. “I’m sure Ghost here will be glad to let you pet him. I just want to make sure that cut isn’t too bad.” 

Celia hesitated until Ghost shifted, encouraging her to stand. Ser Davos sat her on Jon Snow’s chair and began to check the gash on her cheek, Ghost’s head resting carefully upon her lap. She closed her eyes and cleaned the blood from her face, wiping away the tears as he did so, telling her she had been such a brave girl. 

—

Another knock came to the door. Celia had already gotten back down under the desk and curled next to Ghost. The direwolf licked her uninjured cheek and stood, nosing her to sit closer to the wall and away from the door.

“It’s time, Ser Davos,” the bad crow said. “Open the door and the men inside can rejoin their brothers in peace. We’ll even set the wolf free north of the Wall where it belongs. Nobody needs to die tonight.”

Ser Davos turned to the other men. “I’ve never been much of a fighter.” He walked to the desk and lifted Jon Snow’s sword, looking just like the knight in Celia’s ma’s stories, just like Jon Snow. The elderly man looked at her kindly. “Apologies for what you’re about to hear, little lady. Close your eyes and cover your ears. I know Ghost here won’t let anything happen to you.” 

The others unsheathed their swords and Celia closed her eyes. 

It was like the dead ramming themselves against the door. Over and over and over. Until a louder thundering could be heard from beyoung. The shouts and cries of the old tongue filled her ears and her lungs as Celia opened her eyes. 

“Attack!” a crow screamed. 

The world dissolved into chaos of cold and screams of living men and steel. It seemed to happen for an eternity and in no time at all. Was this how it felt to the gods? Is that why they did not care to listen?

Celia only felt relief when she saw the giant form of Tormund walk through the door, but even then, she knew that it would not bring back Jon Snow. For the bodies must burn, they must burn or else the ice shall sink into their veins and all would be lost. To save them from freezing they must burn and then there would be nothing left to remember them by. How many had died already? How many had died and were already forgotten? 

Forgotten like Ma. 

Forgotten. 

—

Ghost had fallen asleep on the floor near his master and Celia stood next to Tormund, holding his large hand with both of her own. Ser Davos, Ed, and the red woman were gathered around Jon Snow’s body. She was cleaning his wounds, carefully, as though he were still alive, as though he would still feel the pain. She wrung out the cloth and continued to clean. She cut his hair then and trimmed his beard, throwing them into the fire and placing her hands on Jon Snow’s chest, whispering in a tongue that Celia did not know, the words rolling into the air like a babbling river. 

The air was silent after, void of anything, even the soft noise of Ghost breathing. 

“Please,” the red woman whispered, but nothing happened. 

Celia began to cry, words sticking to her throat and refusing to come out. Tormund picked her up, holding her like a she would a doll and began to carry her from the room as the others left. Words continued to clump in her throat as she tried to breathe them, trying to say goodbye. 

Goodbye, goodbye. 

She never got to say goodbye. 

The world was no longer breathing as the words continued to knot together. 

But then, the world breathed and a gasp shuddered through the air like a stuttering heart beat. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys like this Celia. I’m still trying to get her POV voice down, but I like this chapter.  
> I especially love her seeing Davos as a brave knight from her ma’s stories 😭  
> Next up we get Sansa! ❤️


	3. Sansa I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Sansa’s past storyline from the book and show will be merged together somewhat. She fled from the Vale after an attack by the mountain clans, able to escape and flees North with her intention to head towards Jon. However, she and a few other girls are captured by Ramsay for his “hunting” exploits. By the time it’s Sansa’s turn to be hunted, her hair dye has begun to grow out revealing her red hair and Ramsay, being the obsessive person that he is, recognizes her as Sansa Stark and his father has them marry. During that point, Theon had already figured it out and had tried to get Sansa out countless times before but failed until the wedding night where he is able to knock Ramsay unconscious and flee with Sansa further North. Meeting Brienne and Podrick happened as it did in the show

The gates of Castle black creaked open, pushing the snow with the same ease that a plow might rich earth. Lady Brienne rode out before Sansa as the lady’s squire, Podrick Payne, rode closely beside her. The world about her was cold and her grey cloak did little to keep her warm, the ache of her healing cuts biting against the cold, and yet Sansa did not mind it. She was alive and soon… Soon she would be with Jon. 

Jon, who looked like Father, with the long brooding face and soft brown hair he had once let her braid. Jon, whom she had felt sorry for once she learned that not all men of the Night Watch were like their Uncle Benjen. Jon, whom she had sung for in the Sept of Baelor as she sang for the rest of their family, thankful that he and their uncle were safe from those that might harm them. Jon, who she had remembered even as Alayne, when she should not have known him. Jon…

And Uncle Benjen would be there too, be there to protect them both as their father had in Winterfell. Even if women were not allowed at the wall… 

No, Jon would not turn her away. He had always been her Aemon the Dragonknight to her Naerys. He had been the only boy in their family to truly care about her stories, her love of romance and wonder. He had been the only one to not see her as foolish. 

Sansa looked about her as she dismounted her horse, almost dead from exhaustion and cold. The castle was not as grand as Uncle Benjen had said it was. The tales he would weave whenever he visited Winterfell, sitting by the fire like a dark knight from the songs, telling them of wildlings and bears and savage beasts that lived beyond the Wall. Yet… knowing that Jon was there, that Uncle Benjen was there. This was the safest place for her, this was the safest she had ever been in years. 

Sansa looked about as the snow fell around her.  _ Winter is coming.  _ It was her father’s voice, or as near as she could remember.  _ Winter is coming and we must protect ourselves.  _

Sansa looked up and her breath caught in her throat as she saw the ghost of the man she had last seen in the Red Keep, his head upon a spike, his last words a lie, a lie for  _ her.  _ But no, this was not her father. The man who was so shocked at her appearance he had stepped back, as though his world had begun to turn on its head, and perhaps it had. She had not been with Ramsay long for him to boast of his capture of her. 

Jon descended from the stairs, never taking his eyes off her and Sansa did the same, stepping forward slightly, her body moving on its own. He was real. He was real and alive and real. He reached the bottom of the stairs and moved towards her, in a trance as much as she was. Did he recognize her? Did he know who she was? Could he see the girl he had once played a knight for in the woman who had been broken too many times to count?

“Sansa,” he said softly. 

Tears flooded her vision as she rushed forward to hug him, a girl once more. Jon opened his arms to her and lifted her once she was settled. Her toes brushed against the ground as she sank into his warmth, holding onto his shoulders as his arms wrapped securely around her waist. She pressed her face into his neck, the tears running hot along her cheek as she nuzzled into him. 

She was home. 

Gods, she was finally home. 

—

Sansa sat in front of the fire as Jon tucked a small girl into his bed, Ghost upon it and the girl’s arm wrapped around the giant direwolf’s neck. She smiled as Jon brushed stray hair from the girl, Celia’s, face. Her brother had told her of the Wildlings, or Free Folk, of how they had crossed the Wall to escape the very stories Old Nan used to tell them to scare them into behaving. The girl was without parents, with only an uncle to occasionally tend to her. 

The sweet girl seemed to adore Jon though, hugging his legs and refusing to go to bed until her eyelids began to droop. He was good with her, as he had been with their younger siblings. To Sansa, Jon had reminded her so much of their father that it had surprised her when she learned he wished to join the Night Watch. She had always thought he had wanted a family of his own, a wife, children. Sansa watched her brother smile gently at the little girl and she supposed the gods often worked in mysterious ways. 

Her heart simply broke for all that he had to endure to get there. The loss, the betrayal, death.

Jon set his cloak firmly on Sansa’s shoulders before he pulled a stool to sit next to her before the fire. He had offered her soup, but she had waited until little Celia was tucked away. Once he was settled she took a generous sip, her stomach churning for want of food. 

“This is good soup,” she told him. “Do you remember those kidney pies Old Nan used to make?”

“With the peas and onions?’ Jon asked. 

Sansa closed her eyes, relishing in his voice the accent so very like their father’s, the only one of them to truly take it. “Mmm.” 

He smiled at her sadly. “We never should have left Winterfell.”    
“Don’t you wish we could go back to the day we left?” Sansa asked softly. She looked up and then into the fire. “I want to scream at myself,  _ don’t go, you idiot. _ ”

Jon put his hand on her arm. “How could we know?”

“That doesn’t mean we can’t regret it.” 

Jon nodded. “Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I had abandoned my vows and joined Robb.” 

Sansa set her bowl down and took his hand in hers. “We’ll never know,” she said. “And, if you weren’t here, then there wouldn’t be anyone for me to escape to. Not with Benjen gone.” 

Her brother squeezed her hand tightly. “I wish I had come for you,” he said. “If I had known that you were in Winterfell, I would have come for you. If I had known the Boltons had you...” 

Sansa brought his hands to her lips and kissed his knuckles. “I was not there for long,” she assured him. “They did not know who I was until the end.” 

Theon had known. Theon had done what he could to get her out. But, unlike in the Red Keep where her name had afforded her some protection, or the Eyrie where her anonymity protected her from most advances. Ramsay Snow had been brutal in his treatment of her. It was only when he had seen her red hair growing from the black that he realized who she was. She was wedded for the second time, but never bedded, Theon knocking the bastard unconscious before anything could be done. 

“Even so,” Jon replied. 

Sansa squeezed his hand. “You’re here now,” she said. “That’s all that matters.”

He squeezed her hand once more and let it go, reaching out to take a horn of ale and drank from it. Sansa watched him curiously and reached out her hand in a silent question. Jon smiled at her and offered her a drink. She took a sip, thinking it might be like the wine from the Eyrie or the Red Keep. The bitterness hit her tongue abruptly and she coughed, gagging at the taste, causing Jon to laugh as she thrust it back to him. 

“You’d think after a thousand years,” he said, taking it from her. “The Night Watch would have learned how to make a good ale.” 

They were quiet for a moment and Sansa watched him. He was no longer the boy she once knew, he had been through too much, just as she was not the girl he had once known either. “Where will you go?”

He looked at her and without a second thought. “Where will  _ we  _ go?” he said firmly. “If I don’t watch over you, Father’s ghost will come back and murder me.” 

Sansa smiled, feeling warmth rise to her cheeks. “Where will we go?”

“We can’t stay here,” Jon said. “Not after what happened.” 

Sansa chewed her lip carefully. “There’s only one place we can go. Home.”

—

Sansa found Celia’s antics amusing. She played with Ghost more often than not, running about, her hands in the air, dancing slightly from foot to foot, catching the sparse snow in her hands. It worried her though, the way she seemed to force away anything about the coup against Jon or the events in the place Jon called Hardhome. It was as though she could not remember the moments fully, or did not wish to, instead her smile was big and wide as she rushed about Castle Black without a single fear. To the point that Podrick Payne often ran after her, trying to make sure she was okay. 

“Sorry about the food,” Edd, the current Lord Commander of the Night Watch after Jon said. He was a kind looking man, reminding Sansa a little of Jory Cassel. “It’s not what we’re known for.” 

Sansa smiled at him. “That’s alright,” she said. “There’s more important things.” 

He smiled back at her as the door opened and a black brother entered holding a scroll. He held it out to Jon. “A letter for you, Lord Commander.” 

“I’m not Lord Commander anymore,” Jon corrected before taking the scroll. His expression darkened when he saw the seal and broke it. He began to read. “ _ To the traitor and bastard Jon Snow. You allowed thousands of wildlings past the Wall _ .” Tormund, the almost giant Free Folk man, straightened, his face darkening. “ _ You betrayed your own kind. You have betrayed the North. Winterfell is mine, bastard. Come and see. Your brother Rickon is in my dungeon…” Sansa’s breath caught in her throat as Jon looked at her with wide eyes. “His direwolf’s skin is on my floor. Come and see. I want my bride back. Send her to me, bastard, and I will not trouble you or your wildling lovers. Keep her from me and I will ride north and slaughter every wildling man, woman, and babe living under your protection. You will watch as I skin them alive. You… _ ”

“Go on,” Sansa urged. 

Jon shook his head. “It’s just more of the same.” 

He began to put it away, but Sansa took it from him and found where he had stopped. “ _ You will watch as my soldiers take turns raping your sister, _ ” her voice cracked. “ _ You will watch as my dogs devour your wild little brother. Then I will spoon your eyes from their sockets and let my dogs do the rest. Come and see. Ramsay Bolton, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. _ ”

“Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North,” Jon repeated.

“His father must be dead then, and his wife and child.” Sansa set the scroll down. “And now he has Rickon.” 

“We don’t know that,” Jon tried to reason.

Sansa looked at him sadly. “Yes, we do.” 

“How many men does his army have?” Tormund asked. 

“I heard him say five thousand,” she said. “Some soldiers spoke of it in the kennels.” 

Jon’s eyes went to her for a moment, knowing why she would be there. He then turned to Tormund. “How many do you have?”

“That can march and fight?” the ginger man asked. “Two thousand. The rest are children and old people.” 

Jon’s lips formed a firm line. 

“You’re the son of the last true Warden of the North,” she told her brother. “Northern families are loyal. They’ll fight for you if you ask.” Jon closed his eyes and began to turn, but Sansa took his hand in her own and pulled so that he faced her fully. “A  _ monster  _ has taken our  _ home  _ and our  _ brother. _ We have to go back to Winterfell and save them both.” 

Jon looked at her a long time, his eyes dark. She squeezed his hand tightly and only realized she had stopped breathing when he finally nodded and she let the stale air free from her lungs.

—

While Jon seemed to trust the remaining brothers of the Night Watch, he still slept with his back against the door of his chambers with Ghost resting his massive head on Jon’s knee. 

Sansa and Celia shared Jon’s old bed, the girl snuggled into her arms. In her shift, anyone could see Sansa’s scars, but Celia had been the only one to see them, as Jon had turned around to allow her to change. 

“Are you a shieldmaiden?” Celia asked, tracing one of the older scars from Joffrey with her finger. 

“No,” Sansa replied. “Very bad men gave them to me.” She ran her fingers through Celia’s hair as the girl seemed to flit between sleep and wakefulness.

“Did the bad men get punished?” she asked quietly. 

“Some of them did,” Sansa replied. “There is one that still lives.” 

Celia sat up and pulled at the bandage on her cheek and showed Sansa the healing cut on her cheek. “A bad man did this to me,” she said. “But Jon Snow made them stop.” She said it proudly, as Sansa would have whenever one of her brothers, on the rare occasion, took her side over Arya’s. She put the bandage back on and curled into Sansa’s arms again. “They hurt Jon Snow too,” she said quietly then. “But he made them pay.”nSansa stroked the girl’s hair, causing Celia’s eyelids to grow heavy. “Jon Snow will make your bad man pay too.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa didn’t spend too much time with Celia, but I think this was a good introduction to the two of them. They will interact even more in the coming chapters.


	4. Jon II

A map was spread out before them on a long table with tokens of different houses laid upon its surface. Davos, Lady Brienne, Edd, Tormund, and Melisandre were gathered around the table. Jon stood next to Sansa, who was sitting, a sleeping Celia in her lap. The girl could hardly be parted from Sansa. Celia seemed to adore Jon’s half-sister to the point that she would glare at Tormund for not minding his manners around the lady. 

“Aye, haven’t heard such talk since she was a wee one and her mother was around,” the red headed man would say, his laugh boisterous and kindhearted. 

But now, Celia had fallen fast asleep against the weight of the adults speaking of strategy and other things that did not understand. 

“We can’t defend the North from the Others and the south from the Boltons,” Jon said, leaning against the table, examining what they had put together so far. “If we want to survive, we need Winterfell, and to take Winterfell, we need more men.”

“Aside from the Starks and the Boltons,” Ser Davos stated. “The most powerful houses in the North are the Umbers, the Karstarks, and the Manderlys.” He moved some of the tokens on the map to Winterfell. “The Umbers and the Karstarks have already declared for the Boltons, so we’re not doing so well there.” 

“The Karstarks have decent reasons to be against House Stark for what my brother did, no matter how right it was. The Umbers, perhaps, were not aware of any other choice. It was not Lord Umber who gave them Rickon, but I fear they know the North will not look upon them kindly for what their men have done. They have thrown their lot in with the Boltons because they fear the wrath of the North for such actions.” 

“Many died during the Red Wedding, my lady,” Ser Davos said carefully. “Many of whom, while blaming the Freys for breaking guest rights might blame King Robb for breaking his oaths to them.” 

Sansa turned to look at the man. “How well do you know the North, Ser Davos?” 

“Precious little, my lady.” 

“My father always said Northerners are different. More loyal, more suspicious of outsiders. It was why Tywin Lannister was able to seat Roose Bolton with precious little resistance from the Northmen. Any who lived to tell the tale of the Red Wedding were sided with the Lannisters or imprisoned. While I admit I do not know much about the current politics of the North, it begs to question on whether the houses know of Roose Bolton’s part in the Red Wedding, whether they know that he was the one to stab my brother.” They were silent for a moment. “We must prioritize the houses who have not already aligned with House Bolton, but we cannot think that they would remain loyal should they learn the part the Boltons played in the deaths of their friends and family.”   
“Even so,” Ser Davos said. “I may not know the North, but I know men. They’re more or less the same in any corner of the world and even the bravest of them don’t want to see their wives and children skinned for a lost cause. If Jon’s going to convince them to fight alongside him, they need to believe it’s a fight they can win.” 

“There are more than three other houses in the North,” Jon continued. “Glover, Mormont, Cerwyn, Mazin, Hornwood and two dozen more. Together, they equal all the others. We can start small and build.” 

Sansa nodded towards him. “The North remembers,” she said and then turned to Ser Davos. “They remember the Stark name. People will risk everything for it, from White Harbor to Ramsay’s own door.” 

“I don’t doubt it,” Ser Davos replied. “But Jon doesn’t have the Stark name.” 

“No,” Sansa said. “But I do.” 

Jon’s heart stuttered in his chest as he looked to Sansa in surprise. 

“Jon is every bit as much Ned Stark’s son as Ramsay is Roose Bolton’s,” she continued. “And there are also the Tullys. They’re not Northern, but they will back us against the Boltons without question. Family, duty, honor.” 

“I didn’t know the Tullys still had an army,” Ser Davos said. 

“My uncle, the Blackfish, has reformed it and retaken Riverrun.” 

“How do you know that?” Jon asked. 

“Theon said he heard about it. We thought about going south, but I knew we would be safer in Castle Black.” 

Ser Davos nodded. “That’s good. The Blackfish is a legend. His support would mean a great deal. Stark, Tully, a few more houses, almost starts to look like a winning side.” 

Sansa’s smile was radiant. 

—

The men who would be traveling with them began to ready the horses. Jon stood overseeing the preparations. He had left Celia to Ser Davos. She was sitting on the horse with the Onion Knight, clapping happily as he explained to her the proper way to ride a horse like a little lady. 

A flash of red entered his vision and he turned to see Sansa approaching him, carrying a bundle of fur. 

His gaze lowered and he saw a dress of green satin. Queen Selyse Baratheon had left quite a few clothes behind and it appeared that Sansa had remade it into one befitting their house. “New dress?”

“I made it myself,” she said. “Do you like it?”

“Yes,” he said carefully, trying to figure out where he should and shouldn’t look. “It’s… I like the wolf bit.” 

Sansa smiled at his awkward compliment. “Good,” she said as she lifted the bundle in her arms. “Because I made this for you.” 

She handed him the budle and he realized that it was a cloak. He held it in his hand gingerly and saw that the sigil of House Stark had been embossed into the leather. It was like their father’s. 

“I made it like the one Father used to wear,” she said. “As near as I can remember it.” 

A smile played on his lips. His heart fluttered in his chest and he felt lighter than he had in years. He looked up at her. “Thank you, Sansa.” 

She smiled back at him proudly. “You’re welcome.” 

Jon stepped forward and cupped Sansa’s face in his hands and pressed his lips to her brow. “I’ll get our home back,” he promised. Sansa smiled at him and walked to her horse where one of the men helped her onto the beast. Jon carefully put the cloak on, grinning. Edd approached in and the two laughed at one another. “Don’t knock it down while I’m gone.” 

Edd looked up at the walls of Castle Black. “I’ll do my best.” The two hugged. “Good luck.” 

Jon went to his horse and climbed atop it. They headed for the southern gates and made their way to the Gift.

—

Jon stood with Sansa, Ser Davos, Tormund, and Wun Wun. The giant was sitting, Celia leaning against him, bundled in his furs, her head sticking out from beneath his coat, just under his head. She had gone to the giant happily and began to babble to him in the Old Tongue. 

They stood around a fire pit with the other leaders of the Free Folk. 

“We said we’d fight with you, King Crow,” Dim Dalba said. “When the time comes and we meant it, but this isn’t what we agreed to. These aren’t the Others. This isn’t an army of the dead. This isn’t our fight.”

“If it weren’t for him,” Tormund said, arms crossed. “None of us would be here. All of you would be meat in the Night King’s army and I’d be a pile of charred bones just like Mance.” 

“Remember Mance’s camp?” Dim Dalba scoffed. “It stretched all the way to the horizon. And look at us now; look what’s left of us. If we lose this, we’re gone. Dozens of tribes, hundreds of generations. Be like we were never there at all. We’ll be the last of the Free Folk.” 

Jon stepped forward. “That’s what’ll happen to you if we lose. The Boltons, the Karstarks, the Umbers. I know these names mean nothing to you, but they are families that have more than enough people to destroy us all. They know that more than half of you are women and children. After they finish with me, they’ll come for you. You’re right. This isn’t your fight. You shouldn’t have to come to Winterfell with me. I shouldn’t be asking you. It’s not the deal we made. I need you with me if we have any hope of beating them. We need to beat them if you’re going to survive. They don’t care about the threat beyond the Wall. If we don’t do this now, then you might as well not have left Hardhome at all.” 

Tormund motioned towards him. “Some of the crows killed him because he spoke for the Free Folk when no other southerners would. He died for us. If we are not willing to do the same for him, we’re cowards. And if that’s what we are, we deserve to be the last of the free folk.” 

Wun Wun stood, opening his coat and setting Celia to the ground. “Snow.”

The giant walked away as though that were all that needed to be said. Dim Dalba looked at the men around him and one of them nodded. The man went to Jon and offered his hand as Celia ran over to Sansa and hugged her hips. Jon took the hand and shook it before Dim Dalba returned to his men. 

“Are you sure they’ll come?” Jon asked Tormund. 

“We’re not clever like you kneelers,” the man said. “When we say we’ll do something, we do it.” 

Jon released a breath and motioned for them all to follow him as they headed out, the plan to leave Tormund and Celia behind. 

“No!” Celia said, stomping her foot. She grabbed onto Jon’s cloak.

“Princess,” Tormund warned carefully. “You’re to stay here with me and your cousins.” 

“No!” she repeated. “Don’t leave me, Jon Snow!” she begged, tears catching upon her lashes. “Don’t go!”

Jon closed his eyes and knew that he could not say no to the little girl. He knelt down and held her hands. “If you are to travel with us,” he said. “You must behave. Some kneelers don’t take kindly to the Free Folk. Keep close to me, Sansa, or Ser Davos. Alright?” 

Celia nodded. 

—

Lyanna Mormont could be no older than ten, but she had a scowl that spoke of a much older soul. She was flanked by two men, one dressed like a soldier and the other was a maester. Jon stood next to Sansa, Celia standing behind them with Ser Davos. 

“Lady Mormont,” Jon said, bowing his head. 

“Welcome to Bear Island,” the girl replied, her chin raised. She had lost about as much as Jon and Sansa had and she was much younger. He wondered if she remembered much of her mother and sisters. 

Jon glanced at Sansa, unsure how they should proceed. 

“I remember when you were born, my lady,” Sansa said. “You were named for my Aunt Lyanna. From what I have heard, you are just as proud and strong as she is. Much like my sister, Arya.” 

The Lady of Bear Island sniffed. “Your lady aunt caused a stupid war after running of with a married man. I highly doubt any would wish to be like her.” 

Jon stiffened, not liking the implications about his aunt. None knew what had happened. It did not sit right that someone who did not know the circumstances judging everything years later. “I served under your uncle at Castle Black, Lady Lyanna. He was a great and honorable man. I was his steward. In fact—”

“I think we’ve had enough small talk,” she said. “Why are you here?”

Jon took a deep breath. “Stannis Baratheon garrisoned at Castle Black before he marched on Winterfell and was killed. He showed me the letter you wrote him when he petitioned for men. It said—”

“I remember what it said,” she replied firmly. “ _ Bear Island knows no king but the King in the North whose name is Stark. _ ”

“Robb is gone.” The phrase left a bitter taste in his mouth. Sometimes he could not believe that his brother was dead. Could not believe that he would never see Robb again. “But House Stark is not. And it needs your support now more than ever. I’ve come with my sister to ask for House Mormont’s allegiance.” 

Lady Lyanna leaned towards her maester and the two whispered to each other before returning her gaze to Jon. “As far as I understand, you’re a snow and Lady Sansa is a Lannister. Or perhaps a Bolton. I’ve heard conflicting reports.” 

“My lady,” Sansa began as Jon stiffened at the young girl’s words. “I was a prisoner and if they had wished me to die, they would have. However they needed my blood because they hoped to have a stronghold to the North, to have a claim to Winterfell. I pray that you never have to go through the hardships that I did, my lady. But I have bled for the North just as my brother’s soldiers did. I am a Stark, my lady, and winter is coming.” 

The Lady Lyanna scowled. “In any case, you don’t just want my allegiance. You want my fighting men.” 

“Ramsay Bolton cannot be allowed to keep Winterfell, my lady,” Jon said forcefully. “It is our duty to stop him. Even more so because he holds our brother, Rickon Stark, as prisoner. What you have to understand, my lady, is that—”

“I understand that I am responsible for Bear Island and all who live here. So why should I sacrifice one more Mormont life for someone else’s war?”

Jon tried to think of a way to respond. 

“If it pleases, my lady,” Ser Davos said. “I understand how you feel.” 

“I don’t know you, Ser…?”

“Davos, my lady,” he said, a slight dip in his voice as he bowed. “Of House Seaworth.” The lady glanced at her maester for confirmation. “You needn’t ask your maester about my house. It’s rather new.” 

“Alright, Ser Davos of House Seaworth. How is it you understand how I feel?”

“You never thought you’d find yourself in your position. Being responsible for so many lives at such a young age. I never thought I’d be in my position. I was a crabber’s son, then I was a smuggler. And now I found myself addressing the lady of a great house in time of war. But I’m here because this isn’t someone else’s war. It’s our war.”

Lady Lyanna frowned. “Go on, Ser Davos.” 

“Your uncle, Lord Commander Mormont, made that man his steward. He chose Jon to be his successor because he knew had the courage to do what was right, even if it meant giving his life. Because Jeor Mormont and Jon Snow both understood that the real war isn’t between a few squabbling houses. It’s between the living and the dead. And make no mistake, my lady, the dead are coming.”

Her eyes shifted to Jon. “Is this true?”

Jon nodded. “Your uncle fought them at the Fist of the First Men. I fought them at Hardhome. We both lost.” 

“As long as the Boltons hold Winterfell, the North is divided,” Ser Davos continued. “And a divided North won’t stand a chance against the Night King. You want to protect your people, my lady. I understand. But there’s no hiding from this. We have to fight and we need to do it together.”

The maester of Bear Island leaned over to whisper to Lady Lyanna but she waved him away. “House Mormont has kept faith with House Stark for one thousand years. We will not break faith today.” 

“Thank you, my lady,” Jon said. “How many fighting men can we expect?”

Lady Lyanna leaned towards the soldier and they whispered for a moment and then straightened. “Sixty-two.” 

“Sixty-two?” Jon repeated.

“We are not a large house,” she continued. “But we are a proud one. And every man from Bear Island fights with the strength of ten mainlanders.” 

Ser Davos smiled. “If they’re half as ferocious as their lady, the Boltons are doomed.” 

The little lady smiled. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some Jonsa in this chapter and Celia being adorable with Wun Wun.
> 
> I honestly liked Show!Lyanna Mormont after a while but then she would say something rather sexist and I would just sigh because it was so obvious that it was a predominantly male writing room honestly. So I had Sansa push back a bit and treat Lyanna a little differently.
> 
> More cute Jonsa family moments next week!


	5. Celia II

Celia pressed her nose into Lady Sansa’s hip, peering out from the hem of her cloak to look at the man they had come to meet with. The fur cloak was warm and Celia felt protected under it, like a memory that came when she was sleeping. 

The castle they were in was much better than the one that belonged to the crows and not as surrounded by forest and water like the one of the bear girl. However, this castle looked like it had been worn, like the old tents that belonged to the elderly, those who had moved for years and years. The castle belonged to a lord called Glover. They had visited the Manderlys and the Cerwyns after they had visited Bear Island and all had sworn their swords to Jon Snow and Lady Sansa. They had also gotten word from a house called Reed that they too would fight for Jon Snow and his lady. 

Celia thought the men they had were enough. It was like all the tribes were being brought together by Mance, but this time they were being brought together by Lady Sansa and Jon Snow. However, all the houses they visited could not give their full armies. Some of them had lost many during the war with Lady Sansa’s brother and many had been wounded during battles with a king named Stannis. 

So, there they were, asking the castle’s lord for assistance. 

“The answer is no,” Lord Glover said sternly. 

“Lord Glover,” Jon Snow said. “If you could just hear us out.” 

“I’ve had enough,” the lord said. “We’ve only just taken back this castle from the Ironborn. The Boltons, may the gods damn them, helped us do it. I have barely any men able and willing to fight as it is. They could all be skinned just for me talking to you.” 

“The Boltons are traitors,” Jon Snow insisted. “Roose Bolton—”

“Have other northern houses pledged to fight for you?”

“Aye, they have,” Jon Snow said. “We have the men and we wish for you to fight with us.” 

“I have heard rumors that you have the men,” Lord Glover said. “And tell me, are the rumors true? Who is it that is fighting in your army?” 

Jon Snow was quiet for a moment. “The bulk of the force is made up of wildlings.” 

Lord Glover laughed, but it was not a hearty one. “Then the rumors are true. I didn’t believe them.” He shook his head. “I received you out of respect for your father. Now I would like you to leave. House Glover will not abandon its ancestral home to fight alongside wildlings.” 

“Lord Glover,” Jon Snow began as the older man began to turn away. 

“There’s nothing more to say.” 

“I would remind you that House Glover is pledged to House Stark,” Lady Sansa said. Celia looked up at her, eyes wide, as the woman lifted her chin proudly, every inch a princess. “Sworn to answer when called upon.” 

Lord Glover paused and then turned, walking straight to Lady Sansa. Jon Snow put his hand on his sword as Celia clung to Lady Sansa’s skirts. “Aye, my family served House Stark for centuries. We wept when we heard of your father’s death. When my brother was lord of this castle, he answered Robb’s call and hailed him King in the North.” He stepped closer to Lady Sansa, but she did not falter, not as Celia did when she pressed her face into Lady Sansa’s hip peeking up at him. “And where was King Robb when the Ironborn attacked this castle? When they threw my wife and children in prison and brutalized and killed our subjects? Taking up with an enemy whore. Getting himself and those who followed him killed.” 

“Do not speak to me of what my brother did and did not do,” Lady Sansa said calmly. “Every victory that Robb took brought me to the throne room of the Red Keep where I would be stripped and beaten by Joffrey’s kingsguard. My brother had Jaime Lannister as a prisoner and not once was there an offer of trade. You understand war better than my brother or I for you took up your banners when the Mad King called for my father and Robert Baratheon’s heads and when the Greyjoys rebelled. You know as well as I do that it is the women and children who often suffer when war breaks out. As a girl who was left in the hands of the enemy after her father’s head was chopped off, I can attest to the cruelties given to women who have not male relatives to protect them.”

Lord Glover bowed his head slightly. “If we had known that Ned’s girl had been in the hands of the Boltons, we would have fought for you, my lady. But to take back Winterfell would be a fool's errand.” 

“The North remembers,” Celia said, looking up at the man, her eyes narrowed. 

Lord Glover looked down at her, but Celia stood her ground, glaring at him. “I thought the Starks had three boys and two girls, not the other way around.” 

Lady Sansa put her hand on Celia’s back. “House Stark stands, Lord Glover. If the Boltons hold Winterfell then the North is lost. Your brother died for nothing and you wife and children suffered for nothing. If there must be suffering, then let there be victory in something.” 

He stood there for a moment. “House Glover will stand with you, my lady.” He turned to Jon Snow. “But know that I fight with the wildlings with great reluctance.” 

Jon Snow bowed his head. “That is all we can ask, my lord.” 

—

“Celia,” Lady Sansa said as they set up camp. “Come here please.”

She giggled as Ghost liked her cheek quickly before bouncing off to join Jon Snow and Celia went to the lady to help. 

Celia liked Lady Sansa. Lady Sansa was like a princess from her ma’s stories and was a Stark too. 

_ The North remembers _ , her ma would say, her voice deep with longing.  _ The Starks shall always protect the North, sweetling. For winter is coming and the Starks shall keep the Others away. _

Lady Sansa and Jon Snow would keep them all safe. Lady Sansa was a princess who would take care of the people and Jon Snow was like a knight who would protect them all from the bad men. Jon Snow would make sure the bad men couldn’t hurt Lady Sansa anymore. 

Celia skipped over to Lady Sansa, humming. She gave a clumsy curtsy, Ser Davos teaching her whenever they stopped to camp. “Yes, my lady?”

Lady Sansa smiled at her and held out her hand and Celia took it. She was guided to sit next to the young woman and then a small bundle of furs was placed in her hands. 

“Tormund said you needed a new dress,” Lady Sansa said. “And Jon told me you liked princesses.”

Celia opened the furs and found it was a cloak with a dress similar to Lady Sansa’s only with wildflowers embroidered upon the chest. The fabric was as soft as running water and Celia wasn’t sure if she had ever touched something so soft.

“For me?” Lady Sansa nodded and Celia squealed happily, throwing her arms around the lady’s neck. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you!”

Lady Sansa laughed and stroked Celia’s hair. “Shall I help you change?”

“Is this why you used the string last time?”

“Yes,” Lady Sansa said gently. “I was taking your measurements.”

“Measurements,” Celia repeated. “Can you teach me?”

“Once we take back Winterfell,” Lady Sansa said. “I can teach you how to make dresses. We are going to have to see leather into armor as well, so the soldiers don’t get cold.”

Celia nodded happily. “Can I try it on?”

Lady Sansa laughed again. “Of course. Let’s get you changed. But you shall have to change out of it to sleep tonight.”

“Okay,” Celia said, standing and holding the bundle in her arms, bouncing on her toes. 

Lady Sansa took them to their private tent and helped her change. And when she was finished changing, Lady Sansa sat them both down on the bed and began to comb and braid her hair. 

Celia closed her eyes. Her aunt used to braid her hair after her ma went away. Then one of her cousins when she went away too. She felt sleepy when Lady Sansa brushed through her hair with a comb and then her fingers. Her hair moving the way Lady Sansa arranged it until it was in a neat braid that looked almost like hers. 

“There,” the lady said. “Just like a princess.”

—

Ghost was far too big for the bed Celia shared with Lady Sansa, so the giant world simply laid his head upon the mattress, his nose close to Celia’s face so he could lick her cheek lazily whenever he wished to, which was often. Lady Sansa’s arm was wrapped around Celia and it reminded her of her ma, holding her tight as they slept, ready to carry her away if she needed to. 

Lady Sansa reminded Celia so much of her ma. Sometimes, when she was waking up, she would reach out and touch Lady Sansa’s face, dreams still holding her down and then she would slowly wake completely and know her ma was gone.

Die. 

Gone. 

Dead. 

She missed her ma, and the echoes of her da rippling across her memories sometimes when she clung to Jon Snow’s leg. 

“You should be asleep, little one,” Jon Snow said, sitting on a chair next to the bed. His fingers brushed across her brow to get the stray hair from her face. “It is to be a long day tomorrow.”

“Ghost keeps licking me,” Celia said, yawning. 

Jon Snow chuckled, scratching behind his wolf’s ear. “It’s because you taste good,” he said. “Trying to decide if he can eat you.”

Celia wrinkled her nose. “Ghost is a good boy.”

“Aye,” Jon Snow said with a sigh. “That he is. I’m half convinced he thinks you’re his pup.”

Celia reaches out and pet Ghost’s maw. He closed his red eyes and leaned into Celia’s touch. She liked Ghost. She liked how safe she felt with him. The other children in the camp were afraid of him, but Celia liked him. Ghost sighed and licked at her hand. 

Jon Snow chuckled again. “It’s time to sleep, little one.”

“Can you sing me a lullaby?” Celia asked. 

“I’m not much for singing, Celia,” Jon Snow said gently. “That’s Sansa.”

“Lady Sansa said you could sing,” Celia said sleepily. “She said you used to sing for Arya.” Celia didn’t know who Arya was, but Lady Sansa had been sad when she spoke of her and a shadow crossed Jon Snow’s features at the sound of the name. 

“Aye, I did, but it still wasn’t very good.”

“Please, Jon Snow?” Celia asked. “I promise I’ll sleep.”

He sighed and closed his eyes. 

_ A gentle breeze from Hushabye Mountain _

_ Softly blows over Lullaby Bay, _

_ It fills the sails of boats that are waiting, _

_ Waiting to sail your worries away. _

His voice was deep and rough, but the song seemed to rumble in her chest as the notes carried. She hasn’t heard this song before. 

_ It isn't far to Hushabye Mountain, _

_ And your boat waits down by the quay. _

_ The winds of night sdo softly are sighing, _

_ Soon they will fly your troubles to sea. _

Lady Sansa began to hum softly behind Celia and held her hand, rubbing her thumb along the back of it. Occasionally she would whisper a word or two, but perhaps she was still sleeping. 

_ So close your eyes on Hushabye Mountain, _

_ Wave goodbye to cares of the day, _

_ And watch your boat from Hushabye Mountain _

_ Sail far away from Lullaby Bay. _

Celia’s eyes grew head by as she snuggled into the furs, trying to blink away sleep. 

_ So close your eyes on Hushabye Mountain, _

_ Wave goodbye to cares of the day, _

_ And watch your boat from Hushabye Mountain _

_ Sail far away from Lullaby Bay. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously though, more people would have sided with Jon and Sansa. It was stupid, especially with how quick the Northern lords were ready to crown Sansa when Jon didn’t return from trying to treat with Dany.


	6. Sansa II

They rode out to meet with Ramsay and his, what Sansa could only assume were, advisors. In their own party, they had Jon, Ser Davis, Tormund, and Lord Glover. Celia was safely back at their camp with Ghost to look after her. The little girl had wanted to come along, but Sansa had put her foot down and refused. She would not have Ramsay Snow—Bolton—anywhere near that girl. She refused to allow her a chance to be under his cruel gaze, even at a distance. Ramsay was accompanied by a small group of soldiers as well as Lord Karstark and Umber. 

“You don’t have to be here,” Jon said gently as the other party arrived. 

“Yes,” she said. “I do.”

She would not let him haunt her in her dreams as he had threatened to hunt her before he knew who she was. She would not be a coward and shy away from seeing him. She was Sansa Stark of Winterfell and she would not allow this man to scare her into quiet submission. 

“My beloved wife,” the bastard said, his voice calm and almost serene, as though he were to speak with her about the weather. “I’ve missed you terribly.” He turned his attention to Jon. “Thank you for returning Lady Bolton safely. Now, dismount and kneel before me, surrender your army and proclaim me the true Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. I will pardon you for deserting the Night’s Watch. I will pardon these treasonous lords for betraying my house. Come, bastard, you don’t have the men, you don’t have the horses, and you don’t have Winterfell. Why lead those poor souls into slaughter? There’s no need for a battle. Get off your hose and kneel. I’m a man of mercy.”

Sansa lifted her chin, angry that the man before her dare claim the titles that had once belonged to her father, and his father before him. How dare he take the titles given to Torrhen Stark, who had knelt for his people’s sake. 

“You’re right,” Jon said calmly. “There’s no need for a battle.” Sansa glanced to him. “Thousands of men don’t need to die. Only one of us. Let’s end this the old way. You against me.”

Ramsay Bolton chuckled darkly. “I keep hearing stories about you, bastard. The way people in the North talk about you, you’re the greatest swordsman who ever walked. Maybe you are that good.” He shrugged. “Maybe not. I don’t know if I’d beat you. But I know that my army will beat yours. I have six thousand men. You have, what, half that? Not even?”

So he didn’t know how many men had joined them, how many men were properly left in the North. 

“Aye,” Jon said, a smirk in his voice. “You might have the numbers. But will your men want to fight for you when they hear you wouldn’t fight for them?”

Ramsay Bolton laughed, throwing his head back with it. He then pointed to Jon, a sneer upon his lips. “He’s good,” he said, glancing to Sansa. “Very good.” Then he returned his gaze to Jon. “Tell me, will you let your little brother die because you’re too proud to surrender?”

“How do we know you have him?” Sansa asked. 

Ramsay Bolton frowned before nodding to Lord Umber. The older lord pulled a direwolf’s head from his satchel and threw it on the ground between them. Sansa closed her eyes at the sight. 

“Now, if you want to save—”

“You’re going to die tomorrow, Lord Bolton,” Sansa said, opening her eyes. He looked at her in slight shock, but his pupils were blown wide and dark with unrestrained want. Sansa fueled her lip in disgust. “Sleep well.”

—

“Did you really think that cunt would fight you man to man?” Tormund asked Jon as their meeting began to die down. 

Jon shook his head. “No, but I wanted to make him angry. I want him coming at us full tilt.”

Sansa’s lips formed a tight line. 

“We should all get some sleep,” Ser David said, bowing his head. 

“Rest, Jon Snow,” Tormund said, putting his hand on Jon’s shoulder. “We need you sharp tomorrow.”

Sansa waited silently until the leaders within their camp had left the tent. She glanced over the map. “So, you’ve met the enemy, drawn up your battle bland.”

“Aye,” Jon said. “For what they’re worth.”

“You’ve known him for the space of a single conversation, you and your more trusted advisors. You sit around and make your plans on how to defeat a man you don’t know. I lived with him. I know the way his mind works. I know how he likes to hurt people. Did it ever once occur to you that I might have some insight?”

“Sansa, these are delicate matters…”

“You think he’s going to fall into your trap?” Sansa asked. “He won’t. He’s the one who makes traps, he made it into a sport.”

“He’s overconfident,” Jon reasoned. 

“He plays with people. He’s aware of this game much more than you are Jon,” she said stepping closer to him. 

“Aye,” Jon said, standing from where he had once sat. “I know what being a bastard does to you, Sansa. I have faced much worse than Ramsay Bolton.”

“You don’t know him,” Sansa replies, taking hold of his hand in hers. 

“Alright,” he said, exhausted. “Tell me. What should we do after we get Rickon back?”

“I don’t know,” Sansa said, faults ring slightly. She hated it, hated knowing and yet not knowing. “Rickon is our father’s trueborn son, which makes him a greater threat to Ramsay than you, a bastard, or me, a girl. As long as Rickon loves, Ramsay’s claim to Winterfell will be contested, which means he won’t live long.”

“We can’t give up on our brother,” Jon said, horrified. 

Sansa squeezed his hand tightly. “I don’t want to either, Jon,” she pleaded. “But listen to me, please. He wants you to make a mistake.”

“Of course he does,” Jon snapped. “What should I do differently then?”

Sansa sighed. She was surprised at how little she feared Jon’s slight temper. Regardless of his anger, she knew he would never hurt her and he was just as frustrated as she was about the whole situation. “I don’t know,” she said calmly. “I don’t know anything about battles. Just…” She released a sharp breath. “Don’t do what he wants you to do.”

“Aye,” Jon said sarcastically. “That’s good advice.”

“You think it’s obvious?”

“Well, it is a bit obvious.”

“Ramsay Bolton enjoys playing with people. When he finds out you have a weakness, he will use it. Sometimes it comes at a great cost to him.” Sansa bit her lip. “When he tried to bed me after our wedding…” Jon grew pale at her words. She had spoken to him a little about what had happened, but not enough that he knew everything. “When he tried to bed me, he brought Theon in to watch. Theon… I know you probably hate him for what he did, but the Theon I met in Winterfell is not the Theon of our childhood. He was… he was broken and… Ramsay did things to him, did things that…” She shook her head. “Theon recognized who I was and had tried to get me out before Ramsay or his father realized who I was. But…” She shook her head, that wasn’t the point. “I was just going to be another person Ramsay used to break Theon, but he didn’t count on Theon wanting to protect me was greater than his fear of Ramsay. I have no doubt he’ll do something similar with Rickon, but I think he will have learned with Theon.”

“Battles and lives have been won and saved against greater costs,” Jon said gently, stepping to her, squeezing her hand back. “We will get Rickon back and we will get Winterfell as well.”

Sansa took a deep breath. “If Ramsay wins, I’m not going back there alive. When Father… Joffrey took me to see his head on a spike and I wanted to die then, wanted to die and kill him all at once.” She looked down at their joined hands, they were rougher than she remembered, rougher than her father’s perhaps. That… that she couldn’t remember. “But I lived because there was hope I could see my mother and Robb again, then after... All I wanted to do was go home and then a part of me knew that you would always be here, where I would be safe. But if you don’t win this battle… I can’t lose anyone else Jon.” She looked up at him pleadingly. “I know it is heartless, but Rickon may be lost to us already and I cannot lose you, not when I just got you back.”

Jon touched her cheek with his free hand and pressed his brow to hers. “I won’t ever let him touch you. I’ll protect you, I promise.”

“My lord,” Howland Reed’s voice came from the entrance of the tent and they both turned. 

“Lord Reed,” Jon said, letting Sansa go and settling his hand at the small of her back. 

“I wished to tell you that I had some thoughts of what could be done to protect Rickon Stark from Ramsay’s games.”

Sansa stiffened. “Yes?”

—

Celia sat in front of Sansa as they rode towards the battle with the Knights of the Vale. Lord Baelish rode beside them and Sansa hated every second of it. 

She hated that she might prove to be indebted to the man, but she did not wish to leave anything to chance and she had not spoken to Jon of the possible additional men because she wasn’t even certain if they would ride for her. 

Regardless of how much many of the men respected her lord father, they were not her lords and they had not fought in the War of the Five Kings. 

Sansa paused at the top of the hill and watched as the knights rode down to help the Northmen. Her eyes were slowly drawn to Jon and she knew that he could see her. She glanced at the coming horseman and was relieved to see Ghost running up beside him. A young boy… Sansa blinked away the tears. 

Rickon. 

He looked so much Robb from when they were children. He was almost the same age Sansa was when they last saw him. How long had he been alone? What about Bran? Did he feel the same ache she did when Lady had been killed?

She turned her attention back to the battle, not wanting Littlefinger to see her cry. 

She watched as Jon and Wun Wun, as well as a few other soldiers, rushed towards Winterfell where Ramsay and some of his men were retreating. 

—

Sansa entered the gates of Winterfell, Celia and Rickon clutching at her skirts under her cloak, neither wishing to let go of her. Lord Reed was close behind her, as was Ghost. Some of the men bowed their heads in respect for her as she saw Jon kneeling over Ramsay, his fist coming down repeatedly upon the bastard’s face, making it bloody and broken. 

Jon seemed to sense her watching and he slowed in his assault. Sansa’s breath caught in her throat as he looked up at her, the children clutching closely to her sides. His gaze went to them, the pained and angered look in his eyes softened. 

He forced himself up and did not pay Ramsay a second look. He staggered into Sansa, pressing his dirtied face into her neck and wrapped his arms around the three of them. Sansa lifted one of her hands and stroked his matted hair as he squeezed them tighter. 

“We’re home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howland Reed basically used his at Harry skills to shoot down Ramsay’s arrows from hitting Rickon and they used Ghost to grab Rickon by the shirt and drag him quickly away. That’s all you need to know about that


	7. Jon III

It was as though Jon’s blood was singing. It was roaring in his ears and he could feel his heart beat beneath his skin, as though a savage wolf was trying desperately to be release, to consume the monster beneath him, to kill the horrid man who would dare try to hurt his sister, his people.

But seeing Sansa… Seeing her with Celia and Rickon, sweet sweet Rickon, clutching to her skirt… It was as though a rope he was tied to went slack again, as though he was slowly gaining focus. He stumbled towards her and wrapped his arms around the three of them. He buried his nose in her neck and breathed in. She smelled clean, perfect. Like—

“We’re home.”

Her words sank into him as he held them all more tightly, determined to never let go. Sansa strokes his hair, not combing through it, but stroking him as her own breath licked at his skin, warming him until he felt that he might be drowning. 

He glanced down and saw that Celia had her hand on his leather armor, fingers clenched in a fist. Rickon was still holding onto Sansa, looking up at him with wide eyes. 

“What should we do with him, Jon Snow?” Tormund’s voice pulled Jon away and he turned to look at the giant man. 

“Have him locked in the dog kennels,” Sansa said, her voice firm. “And if he has any women in there, free them and have someone give them blankets and food.” Her eyes were hard as she looked at the man being lifted from the ground and she curled her hand at the base of Jon’s neck as though to anchor her. “I have no doubt he thought little of their hunger.”

Tormund glanced around Jon, who nodded before turning back to Sansa, exhausted. 

“You need to take a bath,” she said gently. “I think you all do.”

“Aye,” Jon replied. “I think you will as well, for all that I’m leaning on you.” Her dress was no doubt sticky from blood and grime. “Sorry.”

“I have been worse,” she said simply, pressing her lips to his temple. “Let’s go inside. It will do us no good if we all stay out here.”

—

Sansa had made sure all of them washed. She had sent Jon to take care of Rickon while she helped Celia with a bath in another room. 

Rickon has been quiet for most of their time in the wooden tub, allowing Jon to wash him until he was relatively clean. He couldn’t remember his youngest brother ever being really fond of bathing, but Jon also wondered how long it had been since he had a bath. 

_ Father _ , his voice was soft and rough all at once as though he had not used the word in a while.  _ Where’s Robb? _

Now, Jon was standing at the high table, staring out across the empty hall. This should be Robb or their father standing here. This shouldn’t be him. No matter how much he had wanted this as a child, he knew that this shouldn’t be his. 

_ Winterfell belongs to my sister, Sansa.  _

And it was true. They had been in the old keep for barely half a day and Sansa already had everything at hand. Soon… soon she would have Winterfell as it was before they had all gone their separate ways. This would be a place the North could turn to as Winter fast approached. This would be the Winterfell of old, where it’s name would be well earned. 

_ Winter is coming _ . His father’s voice echoed across his mind, vibrating in his very bones as a chill ran up his spine. 

“When we had feast, my family would sit up here,” Jon said roughly. “The last time though… the last time I sat down there. My father and Lady Stark did not wish to displease the king and his wife by having a bastard sitting amongst them.” He smiled sadly, glancing at Melisandre, who stood watching him carefully. “If we only knew the truth then.”

“You at least have the memory,” the red woman said. “You could have had worse, Jon Snow. You had a family. You had a feast. I doubt many can recall such a happy time left in their lives.”

Jon chuckled. “Aye, you’re right.” He looked out and could still remember that final feast. Of Robb, Arya, Bran, and Rickon. Of Sansa smiling radiantly, all the youth and happiness childhood had given her. By all the gods what he would not do to go back and protect her and Arya where Robb has not. “I was luckier than most.”

Davos entered the great hall then, his face pale and his breath harsh. He stormed towards the table and then stopped abruptly, his gaze murderous as he laid eyes upon Melisandre. He froze for only a moment before tossing something black and mangled towards the woman and she caught it, examining it in her hands before looking up at Davos with shock and a hint of fear. 

“What is that?” Jon asked. 

“Tell him,” Davos said, his voice firm and slow, as though to make sure he was not misunderstood. Jon Looked at Melisandre who opened her mouth to speak and then looked down at the object, fiddling with it as though it was nothing and everything all at once. “Tell him who it belonged to.”

Melisandre strained her neck, as though not wishing to speak as she did so. “The Princess Shireen.”

“Tell him what you did to her,” Davos said firmly, before the red woman could even finish what she had said. When she did not answer, Davos shouted, the sound bouncing across the empty halls, ringing like a mourning bell. “Tell him!”

She glanced up at him and then back at her hands, opening and closing her mouth as she tried to form words. “We burned her at the stake.”

Jon closed his eyes and thought of the sweet princess who had giggled when he had referred to her as such, the girl who taught Gilly how to read, the girl who smiled brightly. The girl who reminded him of Sansa, of Celia. Innocent. He thought of Mance burning, his screams and cries of helplessness as the flames licked at his skin. He thought of Shireen again. He had heard her cry out once when she fell, unused to the ice. He did not wish to imagine her cries of pain at the thought of her amongst the flames. 

Davos shifted, his face utterly broken, as though there was barely anything keeping him standing. “Why?”

Melisandre looked between them as she spoke, her voice trembling, as though she were trying to come to terms with what she had done as well. “The army was trapped. The horses were dying. It was the only way.”

“You  _ burned  _ a little girl alive!” Davos raged. 

“I only do what my lord commands!” Melisandre pleaded, quickly, her voice trembling. 

“”If he commands you to burn children, your lord is evil!” Davos shouted, ending Melisandre words for only a moment. 

“We are standing here because of him,” she said plainly. “Jon Snow is alive because the lord willed it.”

“I loved that girl like she was my own,” Davos’ voice broke. “She was good. She was kind. And you killed her!”

His voice echoed amongst the stones, another ghost to add to the many who found refuge within Winterfell’s walls. 

“so did her father,” Melisandre tried to reason. “So did her mother.” Jon closed his eyes, not wishing to imagine how far lost a parent must be to let their children die so that they might live. “Her own blood knew it was the only way.”

“The only way for what?” Davos demanded. “They all died anyway! You told everyone Stannis was the one. You had him believing it, all of them fooled. And you lied.”

“I didn’t lie,” Melisandre said firmly. The words hanging precariously in the air. “I was wrong.”

“Aye,” he said. “You were wrong. How many died because you were wrong.” The silence spread through the air like frost, stinging the lungs the longer it took. “I ask your leave to execute this woman for murder. She admits to the crime.”

Jon looked at her. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

“I’ve been ready to die for many years,” she said plainly. “If the Lord was done with me, so be it, but he’s not. You’ve seen the Night King, Jon Snow. You know the great war is still to come. You know the army of the dead will be upon us soon. And you know I can help you win that war.”

Jon approached her slowly and her eyes grew wide as she did so. “Ride south today,” he said roughly. “If you return to the North, I’ll have you hanged for murder. If you believe that your god has asked you to help in this fight against the Night King, then your punishment is that you shall have no hand in this fight. I cannot trust a person who would murder children to keep her warm. If there are no children to fight for than we have failed already.” Her eyes widened further. “Go.”

Melisandre looked away from him and set the item she had in her hands and Jon saw that it was a charred stag and he felt sick at the sight of it. The red woman left, heading towards the door. 

Davos stood in her way. “If you ever come back this way, I will execute you myself.”

She did not reply and slipped from the room, a red shadow disappearing like a flame that had finally flickered out. 

—

Jon watched as the red woman rode from Winterfell. The air stung his lungs and he felt relief in it. Since he had been… brought back, he felt as though he had to remind himself that he was alive. He had to remind himself he was still breathing. 

He sensed someone approaching and saw Sansa coming towards him. Ghost was not with him which meant he was probably with Celia or Rickon or both. Sansa stood beside him and looked out upon Wintertown. The men were trying to see what they could salvage. 

“I’m having the lord’s chamber prepared for you,” he said, not looking at her. 

However, he could feel her gaze upon him. “Mother and Father’s room?” she asked, her voice oh so careful and hopeful all at once. “You should take it.”

“I’m not a Stark.”  _ Winterfell belongs to my sister, Sansa. _

“You are to me.”

Jon’s breath caught in his throat and turned to look at her. She was smiling radiantly at him. He chuckled and glanced out at the men again. “You’re the Lady of Winterfell,” he said. “Rickon is too young and doesn’t know what he is doing. “You deserve the title. We’re standing here because of you. The Battle was lost until the Knights of the Vale rode in. They came because of you.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” she said softly. “I… I couldn’t trust that Baelish would bring them to fight for us.”

“Did he ask for anything?”

Sansa was quiet for a long moment. “Not yet.”

“I won’t let him hurt you.” He touched her cheek. “I promise.”

“I haven’t been safe in a long time, Jon.”

“We need to trust each other,” he said softly. “We can’t fight a war amongst ourselves.”

“I don’t want to, Jon,” she said quickly. “But I will do anything to protect our family, you have to believe me.”

Jon cupped Sansa’s face in his hands and pressed his lips to her brow. It was like a breath of warm air as he held her in his hands. He pulled away. “I do, Sansa. I won’t let anything happen to you or Rickon or Celia. I’ll do anything to protect you, from Baelish, from Cersei, from the Night King. I swear it.”

Sansa smiled up at him and rested her head upon his chest as she wrapped her arms around him. “Jon.”

“Mm.” He pressed his face in her hair. 

“A raven came from the Citadel. A white raven.” His heart sang. “Winter is here.”

Jon smiled. “Father always promised, didn’t he?”

He could not see it, but he knew she was smiling too. 

—

“You stand accused of murder,” Jon said standing at the high table with Sansa at his side. They stood in the great hall surrounded by the Knights of the Vale, the Northmen, and the Free Folk. Ramsay Bolton was forced to kneel before them, Ghost growling at him from his place before the high table. “You stand accused of treason. How do you answer these charges, Ramsay Snow?”

“Bolton,” he sneered. “Ramsay Bolton.”

“You were legitimized by the bastard of Cersei and Jaime Lannister, a false king,” Sansa said plainly. “He is as much a king as you are a lord of Winterfell.”

Ramsay sneered at her. 

“Now,” Jon said plainly. “How do you answer these charges?”

“I do not answer to you, bastard,” Ramsay growled. “By right of conquest, Winterfell is  _ mine _ . By right of marriage Winterfell is  _ mine _ .”

“If it is by conquest then you have lost it again,” Sansa said, standing. “If it is by marriage, it was forced and unconsummated. You’ve lost, now how do you answer these charges?”

Ramsay lifted his chin. “You’ve already decided. So, what do you plan on doing. Sick your wolf on me?”

“I practice the Old Way,” Jon said. “Lord Reed, fetch me a block.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Littlefinger is going to make an appearance in Celia’s chapter next week


	8. Celia III

“Did Jon Snow make your bad man pay?” Celia asked. She was snuggled against Lady Sansa in a bed so big that it felt as though it could fit five grown people in it. She had never been in a bed so big. She had never slept atop feathers either. Celia was certain it was how a cloud would feel like. 

“He did,” Lady Sansa said, stroking her hair. 

“Will Jon Snow not sleep here?” It was strange to not have Jon Snow close by, or Ghost. She wanted them close by. She wanted to wake in the middle of the night and see they were still there. 

“He has his own rooms,” was the reply. “He deserves to sleep in a comfy bed that isn’t a rug before a fire with Ghost.”

“Is he with the other boy?” Celia asked. “Rickon?”   
“Yes,” Celia liked him. He reminded her of a Free Folk boy, only some of the other people called him lord. He didn’t look like a kneeler though. Not like Lady Sansa or Jon Snow. 

“They are sharing a bed until he is comfortable enough to have his own.” 

“Is Rickon your son?” Celia asked. “Yours and Jon Snow’s?”

“No, sweet girl,” Lady Sansa laughed as though it were a silly question, but then Celia remembered that they were brother and sister even though their second names were different. “He is our little brother. I look like my mother and Jon looks like our father. Rickon is just confused.” 

Celia said nothing to that because she sometimes felt it too. Lady Sansa was just like Celia’s ma, or as near as she could remember her. Jon Snow was like her da too, even Tormund thought so. Celia snuggled closer to Lady Sansa and played with her red hair. It was so pretty and long. Celia’s own hair sometimes felt tangled, but the lady’s hair was smooth like the dress she made her. 

“Can I stay in Winterfell?” Celia asked quietly. 

“Of course,” Lady Sansa said. “Why would you think that you couldn’t?” 

“I’m not a lady… Only ladies live in castles.” Her ma hadn’t lived in a castle. She had lived outside one. 

“You do not need to be a lady to live in a castle,” Lady Sansa said sweetly. She combed her fingers through Celia’s hair and the little girl closed her eyes. “Your place is here until you no longer wish it to be.” 

Celia looked up at her quickly. “I don’t ever want to leave.” 

“Perhaps you will when you wish to if you ever get married one day.”

“Won’t someone steal me?” She was not old enough for anyone to do so. Besides, Tormund wouldn’t let it happen, even if she’s not the strongest of the Free Folk. 

“No one shall steal you if you do not wish them to,” Lady Sansa assured her. “And perhaps you will not marry one of the Free Folk. Perhaps you will marry a little lord or a princeling.” 

“Really?”

“Of course. I will make sure that no one makes you do anything you do not wish to.” She continued to stroke Celia’s hair. “When you’re old enough, I will help make you a match with someone who is worthy of you, someone brave and gentle and strong. My father once promised that to me, now I make that promise to you.”

“Will you marry someone like that too?” Celia asked. 

“One day,” Lady Sansa replied. “One day.” 

Celia yawned and snuggled closer to Lady Sansa. As long as she could stay with Lady Sansa and Jon Snow, she would be happy. 

—

Celia rushes about Winterfell, her fingers grazing across the walls, feeling the warmth stung her fingers ever so slightly. The castle, or keep as Lady Sansa kept correcting her, was much grander than Castle Black and was as though it were straight out of one of her ma’s stories. As much as she could remember. 

Rickon was with Jon Snow and Lady Sansa and Celia had taken the opportunity to explore. Tormund always told her the first thing a person ought to do when coming into a new home or a new camp was explore every inch of it so you had the advantage if anyone were to attack. Celia had no doubt this was why Lady Sansa’s bad man lost against Jon Snow. 

“You must be the wildling child that Jon Snow has taken under his wing. I did not get a good enough look at you before the battle.”

Celia paused and turned around to look at the tall reedy man standing behind her. He was tall, not as tall as Jon Snow or Lady Sansa, but tall. He had a strange beard that didn’t cover his face and only his upper lip and a small area under his bottom one. He was dressed fancy too. Smalltoe. Or something like that. That’s what Lady Sansa has called him when he brought the knights from a place called the Vale. He was a lord too. 

So, Celia gave a wobbly curtsy. “Hello, my lord.” She dares not say anything beyond that. She didn’t want to say the wrong name. “My name is Celia.”

“What a peculiarly Southron name.”

She looked up at him curiously. “My ma was a kneeler,” she said. “My da was of the Free Folk.”

“Even more peculiar,” he said. 

Celia didn’t know why he kept saying that word  _ peculiar _ , but it didn’t sound like a good thing. It actually sounded like a dangerous thing. His eyes were like a mongoose. His eyes were dark and beady, as though he was trying to decide if she was worth something. What, Celia didn’t know, but she did not trust him. 

“Your uncle is the red haired wildling, is he not?”

“Tormund?” Celia asked. “Yes. He’s my father’s brother.”

“Curious.”

“Celia.”

Relief that Celia didn’t know she needed flooded through her as she raced towards Lady Sansa, wrapping her arms around the lady’s hips. She peeked out at the strange man. 

“She seems to be a rather interesting child,” he said lightly. “I look forward to seeing what a piece she would make.”

Sans wasn’t sure what he meant by piece either. However, the ways that Lady Sansa hugged her, she supposed it wasn’t good. 

—

_ Kissed by fire.  _

Tormund was, her ma was, she was, Lady Sansa was, and Rickon was. 

It was the one thing Celia remembered about her ma besides her stories. She remembered her red hair, her red hair that almost looked like the sun when the fire was bright. She remembered her ma letting her comb her fingers through her hair and grasping onto it during the night. 

She couldn’t remember her ma’s face though. She couldn’t even remember her da besides his darkish hair. Maybe it was brown, maybe it was black, maybe it was a dark red. 

She couldn’t remember. 

It hurt sometimes that she couldn’t remember. Sometimes she would dream of them, faceless and warm, but then they were cold and all she had was her hand closed tightly around some of Lady Sansa’s hair. 

Tormund said that Celia’s ma was every inch a kneeler lady. She was pretty and smart and had a wicked tongue. Her uncle said that her name could give a good tongue lashing that could even make a giant blush. 

Celia wished she could remember her moms that way, but she couldn’t. 

All she could remember was red hair and the warmth of a fire in the cold nights where the silence meant peace. 

—

“No!” Rickon’s screech bounces off the walls as he began to throw things at the old man, maester is what Jon Snow and Lady Sansa called him, and his older siblings. The dogs continued to bark aimlessly in the courtyard. “No!”

“Rickon, please,” Lady Sansa said, trying to approach the boy. 

“No!”

Jon Snow pulled his sister back abruptly as Rickon lashed out, his fist dangerously close to where her face had been. 

“That’s enough, Rickon,” Jon Snow said, trying to keep his voice even. 

“No!”

Celia had never seen the older boy grow so violent. She wasn’t even certain what exactly had set it off. 

“No!” Rickon covered his ears and closed his eyes. “I want Osha!”

Jon Snow pulled Lady Sansa behind him and rushed towards Rickon and held him in his arms securely as the boy began to scream and shout, pounding his fists onto Jon Snow’s arms and even catching him in the face. “Rickon, you need to calm down,” he said. “We can’t help you if you don’t tell us what’s wrong. Please.”

Jon Snow’s eyes were shining and Celia thought he might cry. 

“ _ What’s wrong? _ ” Celia asked, slipping into the Old Tongue as Lady Sansa slipped into her dresses. She didn’t speak it much in Winterfell, usually just with the others of the Free Folk. Even then, she usually used it with just Wun Wun since that was all he could speak in. She liked the language, liked the way the words stretched across her mouth and the deep sounds that seemed to spring from the earth, especially when Wun Wun had spoken. 

Rickon stopped struggling and stared at her, his blue eyes irritated with tears and his mouth was open in surprise. Celia slowly approached and sat down in front of him and Jon Snow. He was older than Celia, by a few years or so. He was taller than her and lanky. But he looked a bit like Jon Snow and a bit like Lady Sansa too. 

“ _ What’s wrong? _ ” she repeated. 

Rickon breathed deeply through his nose, as though he were trying to come back to himself. His gaze darted about her, like a wounded animal trying to figure out if the person approaching them was friend or foe. 

“ _ The dogs _ ,” he said firmly. “ _ Make them stop. _ ”

Lady Sansa’s bad man had dogs. And that bad man had also had Rickon. Celia chewed her lip and got onto her knees and moved forward just a little bit and held Rickon’s face in her hands. “ _ The bad man will never hurt you again.  _ Jon Snow  _ and  _ Lady Sansa  _ won’t let it happen. _ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The discussion about who rules the North will happen next chapter. I personally feel that they would try to settle things within Winterfell and take stock of everything before they do that discussion.


	9. Sansa III

Sansa walked the halls of Winterfell, the stones cold against her fingers as ice seemed to cling to the walls like dew in the spring. It cracked and hissed as it grew. 

She knew that it was cold and yet she did not feel it. It was as though her body were not her own as she heard the sound of something roaring in the distance and the sound of steel meeting steel.

Sansa looked down and saw three children looking up at her, their eyes wide. Celia held her hand and Rickon clutched at her skirt. Another child, a blur upon her memory was there too, clutching at Celia’s hand. They were frightened. Their eyes were her own reflected back at her. 

Children who had lost their wolves. Children who had lost their fathers and sisters. Children who lost their mothers and brothers. Children who lost their home. Children who had lost their innocence. Children who lost their names. Children who had lost and lost and lost. 

Another roar sounded across the keep, echoing across the stone like the Stranger breathing down their necks as warm air flooded the air like sweetness upon the tongue, hiding sweet poisons beneath. 

Sansa kept moving. 

She pulled the children along, desperate to get to wherever it was she was meant to be. 

Her father, she needed her father. She needed to get to Father. 

The keep began to shake and then it began to burn. Celia screamed as a wall was forced to fall, crumbling away as Sansa wrapped her arms around the children hoping desperately to keep them safe. 

“Run.”

She pushed them away once everything was clear, pushing them to flee. 

“Run!”

They fled and Sansa followed behind them, trying to get as far away from whatever conflict that she could. 

Something grabbed onto her hair and Sansa screamed as she was yanked back. 

“Mama!” a cry came from ahead of her. 

Sansa looked up and saw Cersei standing over her, her eyes as green as wildfire. 

“Hello, little dove.”

Sansa shot up from her bed with a gasp. 

She was in Winterfell. She was in her own bed. Celia was resting peacefully beside her. Sansa rubbed her face knowing that soon Cersei would learn the Starks had taken back the North, if she hadn’t learned of it already. 

Sansa looked down at the sleeping Celia, her face calm and serene and innocent, despite all that she had been through. She tucked some stray hair that was tickling the girls nose and pressed a tender kiss to her temple. 

“I’ll protect you,” she said. “I promise.”

—

Sansa sat underneath the weirwood tree, the solemn face watching her silently. It reminded her of her father, what little she could remember of him. She could not remember his face, save for his smile, which was rare and covered by her and her siblings. 

The snow had fallen and the maester had said another snowfall might come soon. Sansa prayed that it would not be a cold winter for the sake of the North which had weathered so much already, but she knew it was a prayer that would not be answered for the citadel had said this would be one of the worst winters. 

“Forgive me, my lady,” Cane Littlefinger’s voice. “If you’re at prayer.”

Sansa glanced at him and then turned away. Her faith was her own, what little she had of it. Her mother had always felt uncomfortable in the godswood, even though her father insisted that she had every right to be there. In truth, Sansa felt it was because her mother respected the old gods enough not to disturb their place of worship when she, herself, did not place her faith in them. Littlefinger’s disregard for such things was an annoyance. 

“I came here every day when I was a girl,” she said. She would come with her father, desperately trying to please him hoping her father’s gods would forgive her for longing for the South. And yet she still felt them in King’s Landing. Even when her mother’s gods only stared back at her with eyes of stone. “I prayed to be somewhere else. Back then I only ever thought about what I wanted, never about what I had.”

But that was childhood, wasn’t it? You dream of the unknown and the outside and forget about the safety home provided. What she would not do to go back. 

Sansa stood. “I was a stupid girl.”

She began to walk away but Littlefinger stood in front of her. 

“You were a child.”

Sansa looked at him. “What do you want?”

“In the Eyrie, I felt you understood what I wanted. I thought so until you ran away.”

“I wanted to come home.”

“And here you are, home, but still not free.”

Sansa’s gaze flickered towards Winterfell before turning to Littlefinger again. “I am more free here than I have been in a very long time. Whatever you think of my choice in leaving the Vale, I am here. I am alive. I am standing.”

Littlefinger stepped closer. “Every time I am faced with a decision that comes to you, Sansa, I close my eyes and see the same picture. Whenever I consider an action, I ask myself will this action help to make this picture a reality? Pull it out of my mind and into the world? And I only act if the answer is yes. A picture of me on the Iron Throne… and you by my side.”

He leaned towards her and Sansa put her hand on his chest to stop him. 

“It’s a pretty picture, but I will never leave the North again. I will never go to King’s Landing.” Sansa walked around Littlefinger and made her way back to Winterfell. 

“News of the battle is spreading quickly through the Seven Kingdoms. News that I have declared for House Stark as well.”

Sansa paused. “You’ve declared for other houses before, Lord Baelish. It’s never stopped you from serving yourself.”

“The past is gone for good,” Littlefinger continued. “You can sit here mourning its departure or you can prepare for the future. You, my love, are the future of House Stark. Who should the North rally behind? A trueborn daughter of Ned and Catelyn Stark born here at Winterfell, a mad little boy more beast than child, or a motherless bastard born in the south?”

Sansa took a deep breath. She would not allow another southerner to tear her family apart. She would not allow it. 

—

Sansa watched as Celia and Rickon babbled in the old tongue. 

Maester Wolkan said that it was good for the boy to have someone to talk to. Rickon rarely spoke but seemed to find his tongue whenever he spoke to Celia. 

While Sansa wished that her little brother would speak to her and Jon more, she was simply happy that Rickon was speaking and enjoying the presence of someone he did not know well. 

Celia appeared to enjoy talking to him as well. 

“They are going to speak of who is to lead the North today, my lady,” Maester Wolkan said as they watched the children play. It was no game that Sansa had ever seen and wondered if it were perhaps a game from beyond the Wall. 

“It is a decision that needs to be made,” Sansa said with a slight sigh. 

“If I may be so bold, my lady?”

“You can speak freely.”

“Although Lord Rickon is the eldest son remaining of the late Eddard and Catelyn Stark, I do not believe he is ready to lead anyone, my lady. Much less now that winter is here.”

Sansa nodded. “Your concern is duly noted and I am certain the lords have already thought of this as well.”

“My lady,” the maester bowed his head and they continued to watch the children play, innocent of all that was around them. 

—

Sansa sat besides Jon at the high table in the great hall. It was so full of people that it reminded Sansa of when she would sneak in to watch her mother and father preside over the Northern lords and their questions. 

The hall wasn’t just full of Northerners though. There were representatives of the Bale and the Free Folk. Sansa glanced to the side and saw Littlefinger leaning against the wall, watching as the men in the hall argued. 

“You can’t expect the Knights of the Vale to side with wilding invaders,” a Valeman huffed angrily. 

“We didn’t invade,” Tormund shouted, his voice firm, as though he were reprimanding a child. “We were invited.”

“Not by me,” was the reply. 

Sansa stood. “The free folk, the northerners, and the Knights of the Vale fought bravely,” she said, commanding their attention and commanding their silence, if only for a moment. “We fought together and we won. My father used to say that we find our true friends upon the battlefield. I may not have taken part in the battle, but I watched you. You all have played a part in our victory and those who come after us shall remember that day for generations to come.”

Many of the men banged the tables and stomped their feet in agreement. However a man stood. He wore no digit so Sansa could not tell from which house he hailed or served. 

“The Bolton’s are defeated,” he said. “The war is over and winter has come. If the maester’s are right, it will be the coldest one in a thousand years. We should ride home and wait out the coming storms.”

“The war is not over,” Jon said, standing as well. “And I promise you, the true enemy won’t wait out the storm. He brings the storm.”

“What do you mean?” one of the lords shouted from his place. 

“Beyond the wall there is an army that cares not of the cold or politics or alliances. There is an army being built slowly, an army that has driven the free folk from their homes. You all know the legends and I stand before you to tell you that they are all true.”

“Lies!” shouted a man. “Lies fed to you by the wildlings so they can take our land and steal our women!”

“My brother is known to be as honorable as our father,” Sansa said firmly. “If he were here, my father would agree that this army is real. Jon would not lie to you, he would not create an enemy out of thin air when we know the dangers of the south may seek to take whatever independence we have won back.”

Lyanna Mormont stood. “If the enemy Jon Snow speaks of is true, we must not be without a leader. We must not be without a king. Robb Stark led us into battle against the South. We need someone to lead us into battle against the enemy of the North.”

Sansa glanced at Jon and found that he was looking at her too. 

“As the oldest child of Ned Stark,” Lord Royce said. “It is obvious that Lady Sansa should be given the title of queen.”

“Lord Rickon lives,” said Lord Glover. “By right and law he would be Robb Stark’s heir. It is he who should be king.”

“He is a child,” Lord Manderly replied. “While he is the rightful heir to Robb Stark, he is a child and one who has been left alone away from proper society for too long.”

“Jon Snow is the eldest son of Lord Stark,” said Lady Lyanna. “I don’t care if he is a bastard. Ned Stark’s blood runs through his veins. He led us into battle, into victory. If I were to name a king, it would be him. From this day until his last.”

The men began to shout in agreement, but Jon held up his hand to silence them. 

“I am honored that you think of me with such regard. However, Winterfell belongs to my sister, Sansa, and Robb’s crown rightfully belongs to my brother, Rickon. I hold my father and his wife, Lady Catelyn, in too high a regard to take the rightful place of their children. I agree that my brother is too young and inexperienced when it comes to ruling. The North knows no king but the King in the North whose name is Stark. If you wish me to lead you into battle against the Others then I will do so.”

Sansa nodded. It was the best option. The only option, really. “Until my brother, Rickon Stark reaches his eighteenth nameday, he shall be king in name, but I petition that our elder brother, Jon Snow, serve as king regent until then. And in this long winter I say that we swear our allegiance to Jon Snow, the King of the North.”

The men in the hall drew their swords and joined her. “The King in the North!” they cried. “The King in the North!”

Sansa looked at Jon and he looked at her in worry. She put her hand atop his and squeezed it, not looking at Littlefinger although she knew he longed for her gaze. This was the only way to protect Rickon. This was the only way to protect herself.

Jon would protect them. 

He promised. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we go. Completely ignoring that Sansa, the only known remaining Stark, wasnt even talked about when it came to being the next ruler of the North. Honestly.


	10. Jon IV

Jon stood at the high table, Rickon and Sansa on one side and Davos on the other. The Onion Knight was placed as a sort of Hand to the King, even though no such position had been held in the North before. Jon and Sansa had discussed it at length and had decided to give the man the position at least until Rickon came of age and another night show himself to be worthy. Similarly, Lady Brienne had been appointed as the royal guard, mainly looking after Sansa and Rickon, alongside Podrick and Tormund when he was not doing anything. Sansa had wanted to form a temporary small council, but they had not decided who to appoint quite yet. 

The Northern lords, the Free Folk, and the Knights of the Vale sat at the other tables of the great hall, waiting for his words. He felt strange, speaking out like this, wearing a fur cloak that was too much like his father’s. A part of him knew that the only reason the men trusted him was because of his face, because he looked like his father, because he was a man. Yet, he understood that this was the best way to protect Sansa and Rickon. And protect them he would. 

“I want every northern maester to scour their records for any mention of dragonglass,” Jon said firmly. “Dragonglass kills white walkers. It’s more valuable to us than gold right now. We need to find it, we need to mine it, we need to make weapons from it.” Jon took a deep breath. He glanced at Sansa, who nodded slightly, her gaze still outwards towards their men. Some might not be happy with this position. “Everyone aged ten to sixty will drill today with spears, pikes, bows and arrows.”

“It’s about time we taught these boys of summer how to fight!” Lord Glover shouted and the Northern lords laughed in agreement. 

“It won’t just be the boys,” Jon said. Everyone quieted and looked at him in surprise. “We can’t defend the North if only half the population is fighting.”

Lord Glover stood. “You expect me to put a spear in my granddaughter’s hand?”

Lyanna Mormont stood, a scowl upon her lips. “I don’t plan on knitting by the fire while the men fight for me,” she said firmly, haughtily almost. “I might be small, Lord Glover, and I might be a girl, but I’m every bit as much a Northerner as you.”

It was Sansa who stood then. “While we intend to have everyone train, Lady Lyanna, not everyone shall train at once. We cannot overload those who will be running the drills so that we have multiple people who do not get adequate attention. A fool with a sword might only give more soldiers to the dead. There will be shifts of people training. You will all be separated into four groups and rotate your training with three other tasks. Our main focus is to train us all in not only how to attack, but to defend our homes and families. The second task will be sewing and, as you put it, my lady, knitting by the fire. We need to make sure that everyone is warm and able to stay warm. The cold can kill just as easily as the sword can. Men will be expected to help in these duties as well. If the women are also to fight, then the men cannot expect us to take time out of our own training to fix their shirt when they can do it themselves. The next task is to form leather around the armor of the Knights of the Vale. The Northmen and the Free Folk have protection that is meant for the cold, but the Valemen do not. Again, a person freezing to death does us no good. The last task is to prepare Winterfell to protect as many as we possibly can. We need to put back what the Bolton’s have destroyed and continue the work already begun. We need to expand as well. When the Bolton’s took Winterfell, and even before then with the Ironborn, many of those in Wintertown fled. We are going to take down those houses and use them to expand the holdings of Winterfell so that more might find refuge inside. We all have parts to play and I know that not everyone will be good at every task, but everyone shall help. For the children under ten, they shall remain in the sewing room and allowed to play under the watchful gaze of those who are sewing.” Sansa took a breath and Jon smiled at her confidence. “Are there any questions?”

The men grumbled and groaned, but at least they were not willing to fight this, not when they heard the sound logic. Sansa smiled at him and nodded so that he might continue. 

“While we prepare Winterfell for the coming storm and those who will be within our walls, we need to shore up our defenses. The only thing standing between us and the army of the dead is the Wall and the Wall hasn’t been properly manned in Centuries. I humbly ask that some of the Free Folk go there and help the men of the Night Watch in making sure that it doesn’t fall.” He looked to Tormund who simply raised an eyebrow. “If we're going to survive this winter together…”

The wildling man grunted and stood. “You want us to man the castles for you?”

The men of the North and Vale began to murmur uncomfortably. 

“The last time we saw the Night King was at Hardhome. The closest castle is Eastwatch-by-the-Sea.”

“Then that’s where I’ll go?” Tormund said firmly. He looked to the other Free Folk and grinned and sat down. “Looks like we’re all crows now.”

A smile flickered onto Jon’s lips before he grew more serious. “If they breach the Wall, the first two castles in their path are Last Harry and Karhold.”

Lord Yohn Royce stood. “The Umbers and Karstarks betrayed the North. Their castles should be torn down with not a stone left standing.”

“The castles committed no crimes,” Sansa said from her seat. She put her hand on Rickon’s as the boy flinched at the mention of the traitorous houses. “We need every fortress we have for the war to come, with both the threat from the North and the threat from the South. We will not waste energy tearing down keeps when it is better spent elsewhere.”

Lord Royce sat down as the men shouted in agreement. 

“The Umbers and the Karstarks have fought beside the Starks for centuries. They’ve kept faith for generation after generation.”

“And then they broke faith,” Sansa said, looking at him before turning to their men. “However, even though it has been years, I remember what it was like to be considered the daughter and sister of traitors. Even when my father was innocent of all treason, I remember the burn of their hatred. We are not Lannisters. However, we will not treat disloyalty lightly.”

Jon took a deep breath. “Ned Umber and Alys Karstark. Step forward as representatives and the last members of your house.” They were children, although Lady Karstark was only a year or two younger than Sansa. It was made obvious when they stood and approached the high table. “For centuries, our families fought side by side in the battlefield. I ask you to pledge your loyalty once again to House Stark, and to your king, Rickon Stark, to serve as his bannermen and come to our aid whenever called upon.”

Both unsheathed their family’s swords, both unpracticed and uncertain in the drawing, but knew well enough to place the tip on the ground and bent the knee. 

Jon looked to his youngest brother who looked at them and then Sansa. She smiled at him tenderly and nodded. Rickon hesitantly nodded. “Stand.”

Jon smiled at him and then watched as the two did as their king commanded. “Yesterday’s wars don’t matter anymore. The North needs to hand together, all the living North. Will you stand beside us, Ned Umber and Alys Karstark, now and always?”

“Now and always,” the two replied firmly as the men began to cheer. 

—

Jon walked along the outer halls of Winterfell as men and women began to train below. Sansa follows beside him, looking as regal as her lady mother. 

“You are my sister, Sansa,” he said tentatively. “But I am the regent. I… I do not wish to overstep myself.”

Sansa huffed, the air smoking from between her lips. “Will you start wearing a crown?”

Jon grimaced at the thought. No. No, he would never wear a crown. Robb’s crown had been lost and even if it had been found, he would not take it from Rickon, or Sansa. “I fear I am making mistakes already.”

“You’re not,” she replied firmly. “You’re listening to your council, what little you have, and you are not letting others dictate your decisions because you wish to be well liked.”

“What if they think I am being undermined?”

“Do they expect you to not question your decisions? Do they expect me to be quiet?”

“Of course not, Sansa, but—“

“Joffrey never let anyone question his authority,” she said firmly. “Do you think he was a good king?”

Jon stopped walking and Sansa walked past him until she realized he was not moving and she turned to look at him. “Do you think I’m Joffrey?”

Sansa sighed and smiled at him gently. “You’re as far from Joffrey as anyone I have ever met.”

“Thank you.” Jon smiled before looking down at the people training below. 

“You’re good at this, you know.”

He glanced at her. “At what?”

“Ruling.”

He huffed. “No.”

“You are,” she said before stepping closer to him. He could feel her warmth despite the separation between them. “You are. They respect you, they really do, but you have to—“ Jon chuckled. “Why are you laughing?”

He shook his head and continued to walk, Sansa following him once more. “What did Father used to say? Everything before the word  _ but  _ is horse shit.”

Sansa narrowed her eyes at him. “He never said that to me.”

“No,” Jon laughed. “No, he never cursed in front of his girls.”

“Yet Arya learned the words anyway.”

Jon smiled, but the thought of their youngest sister made a gaping hole open in his chest. 

“It’s because he was trying to protect us. He never wanted us to see how dirty the world really is, but Father couldn’t protect me.” She took Jon’s hand between her own. He looked down at her gloved hands and, for a moment, wished they weren’t before he looked back up at Sansa. “I know you’re trying your best to protect me Jon, me and Rickon. But I want to protect you too.” She wheezed his hand tightly. “You have to be smarter than Father. You need to be smarter than Robb. I love them, I miss them but they made stupid mistakes, and they both lost their heads for it. As regent, you have so much power, but there will be those who will try to get you to use it for their own gain.”

“And how should I be smarter?” He smiled at her and lifted his free hand to tuck some hair behind her ear. “By listening to you.”

Her lips parted into a gentle smile. “Would that be so terrible?”

Steps began to come towards them and Sansa let go of his hands when they turned to see Maester Wolkan approach. 

“A raven from King’s Landing, your grace,” he said, handing a bound note to Jon. He bowed his head and left. 

Jon opened the note and read. “ _ Cersei of House Lannister, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Mingdoms— _ “

“She’s not the regent?” Sansa asked, worry laced in her voice. “Does that mean Tommen and Margaery…” 

Jon stopped reading and looked at her. He did not know Margaery other than she had been a friend of sorts to Sansa in King’s Landing. He didn’t know much of Tommen either, other than he had been a pleasant boy, more so than his older brother, when he had been in Winterfell all those years ago. 

“What does she want?” Sansa asked softly. 

“Come to King’s Landing,” he said. “Bend the knee or suffer the fate of all traitors.”

“Sometimes I forget,” she said weakly. “It’s because I want to, I suppose, but sometime I want to forget that she is still there, that she can still hurt me.”

Jon cupped her face with his hands. “I won’t let her hurt you. Brienne will keep you safe.”

“We have the Wall between us and the Night King. There’s nothing between us and Cersei.”

“Winter is here,” he said firmly. “They will never make it this far North.”

Sansa rested her cheek against his hand and pressed her own over his. “She thinks I killed Joffrey. I’m her enemy and she’ll never stop until I’m dead.”

Jon pressed a hasty kiss to her cheek, his lips on the corner of her mouth instead. He pulled away and she looked at him with wide blue eyes that he might drown in. “I  _ will _ protect you. I promise.”

—

Jon helped teach Celia and Rickon in the training yard himself. It was not that he didn’t trust anyone else to do it, he simply wanted to be the one to do so. They were both his responsibility. Celia was a tad too young to be training, but he wanted her to know how to defend herself just in case. 

Rickon was quick on his feet and he guessed the wildling woman who had been his companion had taught him some things. 

Overall, he felt that they both understood how to defend themselves. He would have a separate training with Rickon to help him learn how to attack, but for now, the two were doing well. He bent down and pressed a kiss to the top of their heads, Celia giggling when he kissed her red hair. 

He smiled down at both of them and wondered if this was how his father felt when he was with Jon and Robb in their youth. He wondered if this was what it would be like if he had children of his own.

—

“You need to rest, Sansa,” Jon said softly, putting his hand on her back as she bent over her desk, going over the food stores. 

“I’m fine Jon,” she said, looking up at him. 

“You need to go to bed.”

“Jon…”

“No excuses.”

Sansa sighed. “I’m so tired I feel like I can’t walk.”

Jon chuckled and bent down. “Put your arms around my shoulders.”

“You aren’t going to carry me, Jon,” she said sternly. 

“It’s not that far from your bed and I doubt you are that heavy. I have carried Celia and Rickon both at the same time. I’m sure I can carry you.”

Sansa rolled her eyes but did as he asked. Jon picked her up carefully and took her to the Lord’s chambers. One day they would be Rickon’s but he still slept with Jon. Celia was already asleep when Jon pulled back the furs on Sansa’s side of the bed. 

“Thank you, Jon,” Sansa yawned as he tucked her in. 

“It’s nothing.”

“Truly, Jon,” she said softly. “Thank you.”

He smiled down at her and pressed a kiss to her brow, his heart thundering in his chest as he did. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fixing season 7 like a champ.   
> More Jonsa moments and Dad!Jon is leaping from the screen.


	11. Celia IV

Celia giggled as Rickon chased after her. He was looking more and more like a kneeler by the day. His red curls were chopped shorter and closer to his head, but not so close that he looked bald. He wore a grey shirt made of the soft material Lady Sansa used for her and Celia’s dresses and had a circlet of bronze around his head as well. He was the king, after all. 

“Celia!” Rickon shouted, trying to grasp at her as Ghost danced about the trees watching them. She could feel his fingers brush along her sleeve as he almost caught her. 

Celia laughed, the cold air stinging her cheeks as the snow fell about them, biting at her skin like death. She glanced back at Rickon and could see he was getting annoyed, his blue eyes turning fierce. 

The dress was harder to run in than her old trousers, but Lady Sansa had made her pants to wear underneath her dress so that she was  _ always decent  _ as she put it. 

Rickon finally caught up to her, tackling her into the snow, laughing as he did so. Ghost was on them in an instant, licking at their snowy faces, his warm breath fanning across their skin like flames. 

The two children giggled as they stood up and brushed themselves off. Rickon was almost a head taller than Celia, but he was older than her too, just four years, but that seemed like forever to Celia. Rickon brushed some of the snow from Celia’s hair before looking to the sky. 

Most of the trees had lost their leaves long ago. Lady Sansa had shown her pictures of some of the trees far in the south. Their leaves were green and were upon the branches almost year round. But these trees were bare, waiting for spring to come. 

“This is the godswood,” Rickon said softly. 

It was dark and gloomy, the place they had found themselves, their laughter echoing across the trees like wind. The forest was old, older than anything Celia had ever seen. There were tall trees of many shapes and sizes, some even had needles where their leaves should have been. At the center of it all there was a pool of dark water and an ancient looking weirwood standing large and broad. The tree was as white as bone, with dark red leaves the color of blood. The face carved upon it was stern, like a father’s face, with deep eyes dyed red by dried sap. 

“It’s pretty,” Celia whispered, unsure of what other word to use. There was nothing else she could say. It was pretty beyond words. 

“My father took me here sometimes,” he said, placing his hand on the face. He was like Celia, in a way, he couldn’t really remember what his parents looked like. Then, his brow furrowed. 

“What’s wrong?” she asked. 

“Shhh,” he hushed. Then after a few moments, he stumbled away from the tree. “Bran?”

Celia looked at the tree curiously, but only heard the whisper of the wind. 

_ Rickon… _

_ Celia…  _

—

“This is for you,” Jon Snow said, kneeling in front of her. It was a small dagger, pain save for the color of the blade, dark as night. 

“Why doesn’t it look like your sword?”

“This is dragonglass,” he chuckled. “Tormund found it and told me to give it to you now that you’re starting to learn how to defend yourself.” Celia looked at it carefully as Jon Snow spoke, confused on why he gave it to her. “It belonged to your da. He would have wanted you to have this.”

Celia looked up at him, her eyes wide. She looked down at the dagger more carefully. She couldn’t really remember him, just what Tormund told her and what she could almost remember her ma saying. 

She vaguely remembered a laugh, a deep rumbling laugh and a scrape of a beard against her skin as he spoke to her in the Old Tongue. 

_ M'annsachd. _

The word came into her head, but the voice who said it merged with her own. 

She couldn’t remember her da. Couldn’t remember anything about him. The person her ma or Tormund talked about was a stranger, a story she was told at night to help her sleep. 

“I want you to practice protecting yourself with this, alright?” Jon Snow asked, bringing Celia from her thoughts. 

“Can I protect Lady Sansa too?” she asked. 

Jon Snow chuckled and ruffled her hair slightly. “I’m sure Sansa would want you to focus on protecting yourself, but I think it is always good to hope to protect others. There’s something my father used to say when I was a boy.”

“Winter is coming?” she asked. 

“That,” he laughed. “But he also had to tell us that  _ when the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives _ . You are a part of that pack, Celia and it is my job and Lady Sansa’s job to protect you and Rickon. You are a part of our pack and just children. Worry about yourselves and we will do our best to protect you. That’s all you need to worry about. Okay?”

“Can I still try?” Celia asked nervously. She hadn’t been able to protect her da and ma. She wanted to protect Jon Snow, Lady Sansa, Rickon, Lady Brienne, Tormund, and Ser Davos too.

Jon Snow smiled gently at her. “You can, but you always need to listen to what Lady Sansa and I tell you,” he said. “Even if you don’t understand why we’re telling you this, you need to listen to us. Alright?” Celia nodded and Jon Snow showed her carefully how to tie her dagger to her waist. “There we go, a little shieldmaiden in training.”

Celia beamed up at him and threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly. 

Jon Snow held her close and kissed the top of her head, his beard scratching at her temple. 

—

Celia sat next to Lady Sansa in the sewing circle, but the lady occasionally stood up to help make sure that some of the men who were being trained were getting their stitches right. 

“That’s not right,” Rickon said, his voice laced with annoyance. Celia glanced at him and saw that he was talking to Lady Lyanna Mormont. The bear girl scowled. “It isn’t right.”

“I’m doing exactly what your sister said. It’s not that hard.”

Rickon scowled back and her and Celia peered over and looked at the lady’s needlework. She was sewing together two pieces of leather. 

“It’s wrong,” she said. 

“See!” Rickon exclaimed. 

“How is it wrong?” Lady Lyanna demanded. “It’s just tying two pieces of leather together!”

Rickon snorted and shook his head. 

“The cold can get in,” Celia replied. “You would freeze.”

“Celia’s right,” Lady Sansa said, kneeling down next to the young lady. “Leather needs to overlap when you see the two pieces together like this so that none of the cold or wind might rush through the stitching. We don’t want anyone to freeze.” She put her hand atop Lady Lyanna’s. “A cold soldier can do nothing if they do. This is to keep everyone warm and we can’t treat it as though it is a worthless chore. If we do, then it is like you are saying you don’t care if some of our people die of frostbite.” Lady Sansa pulled out a scrap of fabric from her pocket. “Your stitching should look like this. Copy this as you’re stitching and you should do just fine.”

Lady Lyanna began to grumble but took the fabric from Lady Sansa and began to study it. The older lady smiled and then turned her attention to Celia. She knelt down beside her and put her hand on Celia’s back as she looked over her stitching. 

“You’re doing a good job,” she said gently. 

Celia perked up, happily. “I want to make a shirt for Tormund,” she said. 

Lady Sansa laughed. “That shall be a very large leather shirt,” she replied. “Perhaps you might want to start on something a little smaller. Maybe one for Rickon or for one of the other children your size? How about tonight, before we go to bed. I’ll begin to help you make a large enough shirt for Tormund. How does that sound?”

Celia nodded and Lady Sansa smiled and kissed the top of her head before going to Rickon. 

Celia turned her attention back to her sewing, weaving the cord through the leather so it would stay nice and tight together. Maybe, one day, she could make a dress for Lady Sansa too. Lady Sansa wasn’t much for fighting and Jon Snow said she wouldn’t fight and neither would Rickon since they were the future of the Starks. Celia didn’t quite understand that, but she would protect them while Jon Snow was out fighting. 

—

Celia and Rickon were walking around Winterfell, heading to the godswood again. Rickon held her hand tightly. She was still getting used to how big the castle was, but he seemed to remember whenever everything was. 

“It is ridiculous that Jon Snow has yet to accept or fully listen to any of the petitions for Lady Stark’s hand.” A voice came from around the corner and both children stopped. 

Carefully, the two peered around the corner and saw a handful of Vale knights standing around each other, most likely on their break from whatever training they had received last. 

“Lady Sansa has been through a lot and he no doubt wishes to have her opinion on these matters.”

“But it is winter and House Stark needs alliances and heirs. It is not as though King Rickon can do much, only spending time with that wildling girl.”

Rickon squeezed Celia’s hand tightly and she glanced at him. He was glaring at the knights like Tormund sometimes did when kneelers were talking down to the Free Folk. 

“It is not our place to speak to House Stark as though they are children.”

“Regardless of Lady Sansa and Jon Snow being of age, they are children. Lady Sansa has barely spent time in the North in recent years and Jon Snow has been away from the conflict in the Night Watch. They need to learn to listen to their advisors.”

“Come on,” Rickon whispered, pulling her along. He walked through the hall with the knights, his chin lifted proudly. He squeezed her hand and Celia tried to do the same, following his example. She felt more confident with him there. She didn’t think she would be able to do it by herself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> M'annsachd — Gaelic for “my blessing”
> 
> I really enjoyed writing this chapter and all the Jonsa parenting moments. 🥰


	12. Sansa IV

Sansa watched as Rickon and Celia were practicing archery. Lady Lyanna was snapping at both of them for goofing off, but the two seemed happy to simply be themselves even in this setting. 

One of the free folk men was teaching them and Sansa thought that, perhaps, he was relegated to Celia in some way because of how she seemed rather comfortable around him, despite Celia’s natural inclination to distrust men. 

“Do you really think it’s Tyrion?” Sansa asked, not turning her gaze away from the children. Jon and Ser Davos stood beside her going over a missive supposedly sent by Sansa’s once-husband. He was apparently on Dragonstone serving as Hand to a Targaryen princess proclaiming herself queen. “It could be someone trying to lure us into a trap.”

Jon handed her the scroll. “Read the last bit.”

Sansa took it and shifted her gaze from the children. “ _ All dwarfs are bastards in their father’s eyes.  _ What does that mean?”

“It’s something he said to me the night of the feast when Robert Baratheon came to Winterfell.” He put his hand at the small of her back, knowing that the memory made her tremble. She was so innocent back then. What she would not do to go back? “You know him better than any of us,” Jon said plainly. “What do you think?”

Sansa had to think for a moment. “Tyrion…” She sighed. “He’s not like the other Lannisters. He treated me as more of a person than the others. With him as Hand, there were not many more beatings.” Even less when they had married. But then Robb was dead and she had no more reasons to be punished. “He is not like them, but he is still not a good man. For all that he has done to our family, Jaime Lannister sent Brienne to me as well as half of our father’s sword. Tyrion… if I had shown him any interest, if I had not made my discomfort known, if I had been an adult when we wed, I doubt he would have been kind to me. I heard his sellsword Bronn of the Blackwater say so.” Jon’s fingers curled slightly into her back and Sansa closed her eyes, trying to remain strong and logical. She looked back to the scroll. “ _ The Seven Kingdoms will bleed as long as Cersei sits on the Iron Throne. Join us. Together we can end her tyranny.” _

Sansa wanted to scoff. Aside from blowing up the sept, Cersei had barely done anything truly horrible in her time as queen. She had sent word demanding that they bend the knee, but it was not as though she were foolish enough to march North when Winter had arrived. 

“He sounds like a charmer,” Ser Davos said. “Of course I don’t care for the man, he’s the reason, after all, that some of my sons are dead. And I’m sure his casual mention of a Dothraki horde, a legion of Unsullied and three dragons is simply a way to show what a great ally he and his queen would be.”

“She’s a queen claimant,” Sansa said plainly, Just as Stannis and Renly Baratheon were. They might have had crowns and allies, but they did not have right to their ancestral seats or the throne they were claiming. She can claim to be queen, but the Targaryens lost the right to the throne when Jaime Lannister killed Aerys Targaryen and Robert Baratheon killed his heir Rhaegar. If she wants the throne, she would have to win it by right if conquest.”

“Your grace,” Davos began. 

“Yes?”

Sansa turned to glance at the older man. He had seen much. While his council was never perfect, for no council could truly be, it was the best they could have at the moment. 

“You said fire kills wights. It might not kill the Night King or the rest of the Others. However, taking away a huge chunk of their forces would better our chances in winning. And, your grace, what breathed fire?”

“You’re not suggesting Jon meet with her?” Sansa asked, her heart pounding in her chest, a growl rumbled slightly in her chest at the thought. No. She had just gotten everyone that she could have hoped for back. She wouldn’t let him go. Sansa squeezed Jon’s arm gently. 

“No,” Ser Davos said firmly. “Far too dangerous.”

“But,” Jon promoted. 

“If the Army of the Dead make it passed the Wall, do we have enough men to fight them?”

Jon looked over at the training yard, down to Rickon and Celia. 

“Jon,” Sansa said in surprise, shocked that he was even contemplating it. 

“It’s something we need to think about. But not now. Just for a few moments longer we are at peace.” 

—

“There’s dragonglass at Dragonstone,” Jon said almost as soon as she shut the door to his solar 

They needed dragonglass. They both knew it. 

“And how do you know for certain?”

He handed her a scroll and she took it from him, looking it over carefully. “Do you trust this Sam person?”

“He was one of my greatest friends in the Watch. He also killed one of the Others, which you wouldn’t expect, looking at him. However, he wouldn’t send this if he wasn’t a hundred percent certain that this is true.”

Sansa’s lips formed a hard line. “So, what do you plan on doing?”

“I am Rickon’s regent, but I know that there are those who might worry about a bastard usurping his trueborn brother’s place.”

“Jon—“

“However, we can’t know for certain if Tyrion and his queen are aware of Rickon being alive. We can’t be certain of that.”

Sansa thought for a moment. “They might, but it depends on whether or not they have Lord Varys on their side. He had a way of knowing almost everything that was going on in the Red Keep. However, his allegiances are… shaky at best. If he is there, if you do go, you need to be wary of him.”

Jon nodded. 

“But Jon… If you leave, there would be no one save Rickon who could protect me from Littlefinger. You could also be used as a pawn if the Targaryen forces decide to take you prisoner. You… Jon, you are too valuable to us, to me.”

“I would be careful.” He took her hand in his. “I would make sure that you were not left defenseless, Sans.”

_ Sans.  _ He had called her that when they were children, when they were small, when she was mad that her name was much longer than Jon or Robb’s. 

“You have to be more than careful Jon, I told you, you have to be smarter than Robb or Father.”

“And I will be. I told you we have many enemies and I will do what I can to protect you from them and do what I can to allow you to protect me.”

“We can’t let them put us against one another Jon, we can’t be used as weak points.”

“Then let us not be usable.”

Sansa narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean?”

“When I was made to live with the Free Folk, be one of them and have them trust me, to let me know their plans, I had to let them think they could use me while also learning about them from the inside.” He squeezed her hand. 

Sansa thought she understood what he hoped to do, but it was always better to make sure. “What do you want us to do?”

—

The great hall was full of the nobles of the North and the Vale and the leaders of the free folk. Jon stood at the center of the room, holding out the letter from his friend. 

“This message was sent to me by Samwell Tarly,” he said, his voice even, but firm across the stone walls of the room. “He was my brother at the Night Watch. A man I trust as much as anyone in this world. He has discovered proof that Dragonstone sits on a mountain of dragonglass.” The lords began to murmur amongst themselves as Jon handed the scroll to Lord Glover. He held up the second note. “I received this a few days ago from Dragonstone. It was sent to me by Tyrion Lannister.” This got an even greater reaction. There was no love for the Lannisters and the Knights of the Vale still did not care for the man. Sansa remained stoic yet intrigued. She was to pretend this was the first time she was hearing any of this. “He is now Hand of the Queen to the claimant Daenerys Targaryen. She intends to take the Iron Throne from Cersei Lannister. She has a powerful army and, if this message is to be believed, three dragons.” This got even more whispers. 

Rickon squeezed Sansa’s hand and Celia held onto Sansa’s skit. 

“Lord Tyrion has invited me to Dragonstone to meet with Daenerys and I’m going to accept.”

Even though Sansa knew this was going to happen already, she still felt her heart thunder at the thought of it as the roar of outrage came from those who knew and remembered the Targaryen woman’s father. 

Jon held up his hand. “We need this dragonglass, my lords,” he said fiercely. “We know that dragonglass can destroy both the Others and their army. We need to mine it and turn it into weapons.” In that, at least, they agreed. “But, more importantly, we need allies. The Night King’s army grows larger by the day and we can’t defeat them on our own. We don’t have the numbers. Daenerys has her own army and she has dragonfire. I need to try and persuade her to fight with us. Ser Davos and a small party of us shall ride for White Harbor tomorrow and then sail for Dragonstone.”

Sansa squeezed Rickon’s hand before standing. “Have you forgotten what happened to our grandfather? The Mad King invited him to King’s Landing and roasted him alive.”

“I know that,” he replied flatly, annoyance lacing his voice ever so slightly. 

“She is here to reclaim the Iron Throne and the  _ Seven  _ Kingoms. The North is one of those seven kingdoms. This isn’t an invitation. It’s a trap.”

“It could be,” Jon replied. “But I don’t believe Tyrion would do that. You know him. He’s a good man.”

“You knew him when he was drunk and traveling, I knew him better than that passing moment so long ago.”

Lord Royce stood up. “Your grace,” he began. “With respect I must agree with Lady Sansa. I remember the Mad King all too well. A Targaryen cannot be trusted, nor could a Lannister who might use his previous illegal marriage to justify a stronghold in the North.”

There were shouts of agreement. 

“We called your brother king,” Lord Glover said, standing. “And then he rode south and lost his kingdom.”

“Winter is here, your grace,” Lady Lyanna said, standing as well. “We need the regent King in the North in the  _ North.” _

Everyone pounded the table in agreement. 

“You all named me regent in my brother’s stead until he becomes of age. I never asked for this honor, but I accepted it because the North is my home. It’s part of me and I will never stop fighting for it, no matter the odds.” He took a breath. “ it the odds are against us. Many of you have yet to see the Others. We can never hope to defeat them as we are now. We need allies, powerful allies. I know the risk,” he admitted. “But I have to take it.”

“Then send an emissary,” Sansa pleaded. She knew she looked panicked and she felt it. Tomorrow, Jon would be leaving her tomorrow. “Don’t go yourself.”

“Daenerys claims herself as a queen,” Jon answered. “Only a king can convince her to help us. Rickon is far too young for such things. As his older brother and his trusted regent, it has to be me.”

“You’re abandoning your  _ people _ ,” Sansa said fiercely. “You’re abandoning your  _ home _ .”

“I’m leaving both in good hands.”

“Whose?” Sansa demanded. 

“Yours.”

The word was like an arrow in her heart that caused a stutter. To be trusted so much, to be thought so highly of. It was as though, for a brief moment, everything Cersei, Sandor, or Baelish had ever said to her, disparaging her intelligence, had never happened. It was as though she were home, truly home with Father and Mother again. 

“You are my sister and Rickon’s. You are the blood of Winterfell. Until I return, you are regent. The North is yours.”

—

Celia and Rickon had demanded that they all sleep together on the last night before Jon left. They all understood that he would be leaving and the children hung on his arms as they readied for bed, begging for him to stay with them, to all sleep together. 

“Like wolves!” Rickon had shouted. 

They had to be careful about it, had to not give anyone any indication of what was happening. 

However, they made it into Sansa’s bed without rousing any suspicion. 

Rickon and Celia cling onto each other between Jon and Sansa, each reaching for the person on the other side of the other. Celia reached for Jon’s tunic and Rickon held onto Sansa’s sleeve. The two curled around the children, protectively. 

“Goodnight, Sans,” Jon whispered, his voice a little rough. 

“Goodnight,” she echoed back, heat rising to her cheeks. “Jon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion is much more similar to his book counterpart in this and me also casually pointing out that aside from her burning down the sept, Cersei hasn’t necessarily done anything horrible as her time as queen. Heck, as much as I like Book Ellaria, she murdered the head of House Martell (who is respected in Dorne) in the show. I doubt Dorne was made about her seeming to get justice.


	13. Jon V

Jon woke up first. 

The morning light was trickling in through the curtains. It wasn’t quite morning yet, the light too filtered and fluttering. Even so, it made Sansa’s hair glow like amber against the white sheets of the bed. Celia was curled into Sansa’s arms, her face pressed against Jon’s sister, so that he could only see her red braid that looked like copper. 

Jon was pushed towards the edge of the bed because Rickon was sprawled out on his back, his hand resting beneath Celia’s cheek. Jon smiled at his little brother. Rickon had the occasional nightmare, even with Jon there to be with him. He had been worried about leaving him alone, but with Sansa and Celia with him, Jon was certain Rickon would be okay. 

He didn’t want to go to Dragonstone, didn’t want to leave Sansa or the children in Winterfell with only Brienne and Podrick to protect them. Lord Royce would look after them, Jon hoped so at least, but that didn’t mean he wanted to leave them so unguarded. 

However, they needed dragonglass and, should the Targaryen woman not be like her father or brother, then perhaps they might be allies, perhaps she might willingly help the North and not try to question their independence.

But Jon had very little hope in that. 

Jon had been around three kings in his time and two queens. They didn’t care about the North, the closest perhaps being Mance, but even then, he would not have trusted the Free Folk under Mance to be anywhere near Sansa. They did not care about Winterfell. They did not care about Sansa. 

_Winterfell belongs to my sister, Sansa._

Jon would need to be smarter than his father and smarter than Robb. Smarter than Mance or Ygritte or Stannis. He needed to be smarter. He had his family to worry about. 

If this dragon queen posed any threat, he would have to be extra careful. He had to make sure that he played his cards right, played her right, because if he didn’t then his people, Sansa specifically, would lose all the freedom they had tried so hard to regain. 

“Good morning…” Jon glanced up and found Sansa’s blue eyes in him, a sleepy smile upon her lips. “Are you comfortable?”

“As I can be,” he chuckled, glancing down at Rickon. 

Sansa reached over the children carefully and took his hand in hers. “I don’t want you to go.”

Jon carefully kissed her knuckles. “I’ll come back to you,” he said quietly. “I promise.”

—

Jon stood before his father’s stature. It didn’t look like him, but, then again, not many people who were good in the art of sculpting knew what his father’s face looked like. Even so, it got his father’s presence right. It felt commanding and yet it drew Jon in. It felt as though his legacy had cast a shadow upon him and now all he could do is pray to all the gods that he was able to live up to it, that he could protect his father’s remaining trueborn daughter and son. 

_These are your siblings, Jon, Robb_ , their father would say whenever one of the younger children were born. _It is your duty to protect them._

“I delivered his bones myself,” the slithering voice of Lord Baelish came from behind Jon and he stiffened. He glanced back at the weasley man , keeping his features blank. The man approached him and then stood beside Jon, staring up at the statue. He shouldn’t be there. “I presented them to Lady Catelyn as a gesture of goodwill from Tyrion Lannister. It seems like a lifetime ago. Do give Lord Tyrion my best when you see him.”

“I doubt there will be many words exchanged between us,” Jon said plainly. “Not if the Targaryen girl has any forethought. The history between the Starks and the Lannisters is far more recent than the conflict between the Targaryens and the Starks. The deaths by the hand of the lions is much more recent.”

Lord Baelish sighed. “I was sorry when your father died. He and I had our differences, but he loved Cat very much. So did I.” He glanced at Jon, but he refused to spare even a glance. “She wasn’t fond of you, was she? Well, it appears she vastly underestimated you. Your father and Robb are gone, yet here you stand, the king regent is the North, the last hope against the coming storm.”

Jon turned to look at him and said what he truly thought, not actually caring about his petty speeches. “You don’t belong down here.”

“Forgive me,” he said with a slight bow of his head. “We have never talked properly. I wanted to remedy that.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“Not even _thank you?”_ he asked, his voice bordering a sneer. “If it weren’t for me, you would have been slaughtered on the battlefield.”

Jon scoffed and began to walk away. “The Knights of the Vale came for Sansa, the daughter of Lord Eddard Stark. They did not come for you.”

“You have many enemies, my king,” Lord Baelish said, stopping Jon in his tracks. “But I swear to you I’m not one of them. You and I, perhaps, even could say we have similar goals. I would never let anyone hurt Sansa. I love her, just as as I loved her mother.”

He felt something snap. 

Jon turned around quickly, grabbing Baelish by the throat and slammed him against the wall. The man began to choke, scratching at his hands. 

“Touch my sister,” he growled. “And I’ll kill you myself.”

He let Lord Baelish go quickly and stormed from the crypt, not waiting for any answer. 

—

Jon straightened himself out as he left the crypt. Ghost was sitting just outside, mouth open and tongue hanging out. Jon chuckled and rubbed the direwolf’s head. He had become spoiled since Celia had come into his life, even more so when Sansa had. 

His fur had become softer and he smelled slightly of pine instead of ice and dirt. Yes, Ghost had truly become spoiled, but so had Jon. He couldn’t imagine being away from his family for who knew how long. He had to come back quickly to help his people prepare for the coming war, but he also needed dragonglass so that his people could defend themselves. 

Ghost nudged his nose against Jon’s hip and he chuckled. He bend down and scratched behind the direwolf’s ears. 

“Take care of them,” he said softly. “Watch over them for me.” He couldn’t be here, but Ghost could. Jon stood and looked back at the crypts, hearing the faint footsteps of Lord Baelish coming from behind. “Keep him away from Sansa.”

Jon left then. He needed to finish packing. 

—

Davos was already on his own horse S Jon finally made his way to the courtyard. 

Celia and Rickon rushed to him, wrapping their arms around his hips. The sweet girl had tears in her eyes while his brother was so obviously trying to be the sting one. Jon knelt down and hugged them both, gently kissing away Celia’s tears and ruffling Rickon’s hair. 

“I’ll be back,” he said. “I promise.”

“I don’t want you to go,” Celia cried softly against his neck as she clung to his cloak. 

“I’ll come back,” he said, more firmly this time. “I’ll be back before you even notice I’m gone.” Jon pulled back and looked at both of them, a hand on each of their shoulders. “You two need to protect each other and look after Sansa. Be good and don’t get into too much trouble. Can you do that for me?” Both nodded and Jon smiled. As he stood, he kissed the top of both of their heads. “I’ll be back,” he said again. “I promise.”

Jon smiled at them as he went to his horse and mounted. He glanced back at the balcony over the courtyard and saw Sansa watching him, her red hair a stark contrast against the grey stone of Winterfell, her pale skin like snow or the bark of a weirwood tree. He had hoped she would see him off, but had worried that, perhaps, it would not fit with the image they were supposed to be portraying. 

He smiled slightly and lifted his hand to her. Her lips trembled into a smile of her own and she raised a small hand to him in farewell. 

_Winterfell belongs to my sister, Sansa._

_I’ll protect you, I promise._

He bowed his head to her and turned away before he lost his nerve, before he decided to stay. He pressed his heel into his horse’s side and rode out of Winterfell swearing in all those who were gone that he would keep their family safe. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised Jonsa and I gave you Jonsa. 
> 
> We’ll meet Dany and Missandei in Jon’s next chapter


	14. Celia V

Jon Snow had said that he would be back before Celia even noticed he was gone. But she did notice. She did notice he was gone. 

It felt as though a little bit of warmth had left Winterfell, as though. It felt colder and the snow seemed to bite more harshly without Jon Snow there to wipe away the flakes from her lashes. 

She stood at the wall of the keep, looking out upon the road from which Jon Snow and Ser Davos had left. She had hoped that he would be back by now. 

Celia knew that he was going to meet a queen very far in the south, but no one told her how far south it was. They said the place was called Dragonstone, but Celia didn’t know where that was. Her ma had never talked about a place called Dragonstone. But because of the name, she could only guess it was where the dragons lived. 

“You shouldn’t be out here, Celia,” came Lady Sansa’s voice. Celia turned and saw the lady climbing up the stairs and to her. Ghost followed behind her, his pink tongue hanging from his maw as steam rose from his breath like smoke. “You will catch a chill up here. You should come in and warm yourself by the fire.”

“Jon Snow said he would be back,” Celia said, a pout coming to her lips. Ghost padded to her and licked her cheek. She wrapped her arms around the direwolf’s neck and pressed her face into his fur. 

Lady Sansa stroked her hair. “He will be gone for a few months, sweetling. He still has a long way to go. Come inside.”

“He said he would be back,” Celia insisted, not lifting her head from Ghost’s snowy fur. 

Lady Sansa sighed gently and knelt down next to Celia and made her turn to look at her. “He will be back,” she promised. “But it will take a little while for him to return. You just need to wait patiently and he will be so very happy to see you when he comes back, I swear it.”

“I want him to come back now.”

Lady Sansa smiled and stood, pressing a kiss to the top of Celia’s head. “I do too, sweetling, but we’re going to have to wait.” She took Celia’s hand in her own. “Let’s go inside and get warm. Jon would not wish for us to catch a chill, would he?”

“No,” Celia replied, glumly. 

Lady Sansa laughed again as she walked them both down the stairs and back into the keep, Ghost following carefully behind. 

—

Celia didn’t know how to write in the common tongue Maester Wolkan was writing in, so she wrote it in the old one, what runes she did know anyway. Rickon sat beside her and he seemed to remember his letters better than Celia knew them. They looked so boring compared to the runes. However, either way, the entire lesson was rather boring. 

It was about the history of the North and it sounded so different from the stories her ma had told her. It didn’t help that Celia felt fidgety. She wanted to go learn about shooting arrows or sewing. However, Rickon was made to take lessons so he could be a better king and Lady Sansa encouraged Celia to sit with him. 

Rickon nudged Celia’s foot with his own and she glanced at him where he tapped his finger on his scroll. 

Celia looked to where he was pointing and found a crude drawing of Maester Wolkan. She chewed her lip to stifle a giggle and looked down at her own scroll and began to draw Littletoe, drawing his mustache like a worm. Rickon didn’t attempt to even hide his chuckle. It turned into a laugh and the maester looked back at them with a highly disapproving look, but that only got Celia to begin laughing as well. 

Maester Wolkan sighed. “You two can be dismissed and go off to the training grounds.”

Rickon howled with excitement and Celia grinned. He grabbed her hand and they began to race out of the room and down the hall, passing Lady Sansa along the way as she entered to speak with the old maester. 

“Wait!” Celia let go of his hand and rushed back to the lesson room. She had forgotten the knife that Jon Snow had given her.

“I worry sometimes,” Lady Sansa said, her voice coming from the front of the room. “That Rickon won’t be ready when it is time for him to take the throne. He is just… He is so wild sometimes and I worry that the lords will not respect him because he is too much like the Free Folk.”

“You need not worry, my lady,” Maester Wolkan said, putting his hand on her shoulder. “The king has been through so much and we should see his behavior as being relatively normal for a boy his age. I remember Dominic Bolton, he was much like the king at that age and, my lady, I feel that with all that is going on in the world, it’s perfectly acceptable for him to act like a child.” The old man looked sad for a moment. “I am sure you and Lord Snow know what it is like to have your childhood so violently ripped from your fingers. Allow the king to be a boy in these moments of privacy.” He smiled then and glanced at Celia who had the knife in her hand, blushing. “And Lady Celia seems to be the perfect companion for him to have in these times.”

Lady Sansa then looked at her, surprised that Celia was there, but then smiled. “Yes,” she said. “I suppose you’re right.”

—

“My king.”

Rickon squeezed Celia’s hand tightly and turned to look at the weasley lord standing behind them. Podrick was with them as well, shifting uncomfortably as the man, Littletoe, approached. 

The man bowed and smiled. It was also though it had been painted on like a doll, thin lips hidden beneath a mustache that seemed to hide a hundred secrets. “I have been wanting to speak with you for a long time, your grace,” he said. “However, you have been so very busy and your brother, Jon Snow appeared to enjoy keeping you away from your vassals.”

Celia narrowed her eyes. “No he doesn’t.” 

The man’s eyes turned to glance at her and a shudder ran down Celia’s spine. She did not like him looking at her. It reminded her of the bad men. She wrapped her arms around Rickon’s, hoping he would protect her.

“Jon is doing what he thinks is best. He’s a good king for until I become big enough to take the throne myself.” 

“You are certainly young,” the lord agreed. “However, there have been younger kings than you. You brother, Brandon, was left lord of Winterfell when your brother, King Robb was away. Surely you are old enough to do this all by yourself, for what reason would your bastard brother need to be your regent, especially since he has abandoned you and left the position to your sister, Sansa. Surely she would have been a better choice.” 

“That is Lady Sansa to you, Lord Baelish,” Rickon said darkly, a growl seeming to vibrate through his chest. 

“I have known  _ Lady  _ Sansa for a long time, your grace,” the man replied. “I kept her safe in King’s Landing and I kept her safe in the Eyrie. You could say that House Stark owes me a great deal.” 

“And what is it that you think you are owed?” Rickon asked. Celia could see the hair on the back of his neck raise like a world ready to fight, like Ghost when he had taken care of some of the bad men. 

“Your sister, I feel, would be safer in the Eyrie, where the army of the dead are less likely to reach her. She is your heir after all, even if her title for the moment is regent and Lady of Winterfell. Allow me to take her to the Eyrie. Allow me to protect her in a way only a man can.” 

“Jon Snow is protecting her,” Celia said, standing up straight, although still holding onto Rickon. “He is protecting all of us.” 

The man’s lips twitched. “As a brother, perhaps,” came the reply. “But a husband can do more for a woman’s protection. Do you not think so, your grace? After all, your Uncle Edmure could not protect your mother. Your father, for all his faults, would have never let that horrid fate befall her.” 

Celia’s grip on Rickon tightened as she felt him tense, ready to strike at his prey at any time. “The pack survives together, Littlefinger,” Rickon growled. “And I do not trust anyone outside the pack to look after us.”

“Your grace—“

“I suggest you leave, Lord Baelish,” Podrick said flatly. “I am to take the king and Celia to the glass gardens for their lessons. We would not wish to inform Lady Sansa on why they are late for these lessons. Would we?” 

Littlefinger’s lips formed a tight, thin line. “No,” he replied. “We would not.”

—

“Can you tell me a story?” Celia asked as she curled into Lady Sansa for bed that night. Rickon had said he wished to try and sleep in his own bed that night so that he might see how it goes. However, he wasn’t alone, Ghost had followed after him, making sure that he wouldn’t truly be by himself. 

“What sort of story do you want to hear?” Lady Sansa asked. 

“A dragon story,” Celia replied. “But not one about a dragon.” 

Lady Sansa laughed, holding Celia to her and stroking her hair as she thought for a moment. “Oh,” she said. “I know the perfect one.” 

Celia perked up and snuggled closer to Lady Sansa to listen. 

“There was once a girl who came from the long-vanished kings of the First Men,” Lady Sansa began. “She lived in a ruin castle called Oldstones which was once the seat of the ancient house of Mudd. People called her Jenny and she was a beautiful woman who almost seemed to spring from the earth itself, as thought the songs of the Children had brought her into being so that she would be found by a prince of dragonflies.” Celia reached out and played with the dragonfly charm on Lady Sansa’s necklace, liking the story already. “Duncan Targaryen, the Prince of Dragonstone, met Jenny while he was traveling through the Riverlands on his father’s business. He fell in love with her so fast and so quickly that he married her without his father’s permission, breaking his betrothal to another woman.” 

“Betrothal?” Celia asked. 

Lady Sansa chuckled. “It is the period before you get married, but know who you are going to marry.” 

“Oh.” 

“Anyway,” Lady Sansa said, kissing the crown of Celia’s head. “The king, Duncan’s father, tried to have the marriage undone, but Duncan refused to give Jenny up and chose instead to leave his titles and right to the Iron Throne. He then became known as the Prince of Dragonflies and he and Jenny were very happy.”

“What happened after?” Celia asked. 

“There was sadness afterwards,” Lady Sansa admitted, twirling a strand of Celia’s hair around her fingers. “However, there was happiness there and even if there was sadness, one must never forget the happy moments.” 

“What happened to Jenny?” Celia asked. 

“She danced with her ghosts.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I’m going to start breaking the cycle after Sansa’s next chapter. The new cycle will be this: Jon -> Celia -> Missandei -> Sansa -> Daenerys -> Rickon. So we’ll be getting three new POVs.


	15. Sansa V

Even though Sansa comforted Celia and Rickon over Jon’s journey south, she missed him too. 

Winterfell did not feel the same without him. 

It felt wrong to be in Winterfell and not have Jon there. He had been parts of her earliest memories, her earliest thoughts that she could recall of Winterfell. It was not home without him and Sansa felt as though she were adrift at sea without him. The cold made her more irritated and she could not fathom that he would be gone for so long. 

If she were not so busy, Sansa would wait for Jon’s return along the battlements of Winterfell. She would wait to see if a Raven had arrived from him, waiting to hear if he was well, if he was safe. 

She wondered, briefly, if this is how her mother had felt when her father had gone to fight against the Greyjoys. She wondered if her mother felt a similar ache in her chest that Sansa did. 

There was no one to ask. She would check the room he shared with Rickon often, the room that had been his and Robb’s when they were children. She would almost expect him to be there, younger, unscathed, and still full of the strained optimism that only he possessed. 

She would sometimes expect Robb there too, or their father after he had returned them to their rooms after teaching them the ways of the sword. 

She felt it about all of Winterfell really, especially since they had done the rebuilding. When she had been in the kennels with Ramsay, she had barely any time at all to take it all in, to really look at her childhood home, but now she could only think of the ghosts that haunted the halls. Her uncles and aunt, her grandfather and her parents, her siblings and the servants. 

Winterfell was so full of ghosts and Sansa forgot that was so whenever Jon had been near. But now he was gone, south to meet with a foreign queen with dragons, the daughter of the man who had burned and killed their uncle and grandfather, the sister of the man who had kidnapped and raped their aunt. 

She went to the godswood often to pray to him and sometimes go to the mess that was her mother’s sept. They were nearly done refinishing it, bringing it back to its proper condition. She prayed to the old gods and the new, even when she did not expect them to hear. It still felt nice to feel as though she were doing something. 

Sansa looked out at the courtyard and could see some of the free folk was getting ready to help man the Wall. Sansa made her way down the steps, hoping to offer them whatever assistance she could. 

—

“Are you certain you have everything you need, Tormund?” Sansa asked carefully as Celia held onto her uncle’s leg tightly. 

“Aye,” the large man said, stroking his niece’s hair. “We have everything we need to make it to that bloody wall. My people know the others better than your crows, and we will send word if we see any movement.”

“I am sorry that Jon is not here to see you off,” she said. “I know he would have wanted to show you his approval.”

“No need to fear, Red. Your wild king is one of us in a way and he’s made sure we know we are the allies of Winterfell and House Stark.”

Sansa smiled and glanced at her little brother and saw him speaking with another man of the free folk. He was coming into his own, although some of his actions were clumsy, like a child playing dress up in their father’s clothes. Podrick had told her about her brother confronting Littlefinger and she felt infinitely grateful for his words but also worried that Baelish might turn his focus on Rickon and make sure that he might not get in the way. 

“Don’t be so worried, Red,” Tormind said, gaining her attention again. “He’s kissed by fire. It means he’s lucky.”

Sansa smiled at him. “I suppose I’m lucky too then?” 

“Of course you are. Like weirwood trees we kissed by fire are. Jon Snow will come back sooner than you think. And besides, he left his wolf with you. He’ll come back.”

Sansa continued to smile. “Stay safe Tormund Giantsbain.”

He grinned at her. “You as well, Red Wolf.” He bent down, lifted her up and pressed a kiss to Celia’s cheek. “Behave for the king and princess now, my little princess,” he said, kissing her cheek again. Celia wrapped her arms around Tormunds neck and he patted her back gently. He didn’t promise to come back and Celia wondered if that was something the Free Folk had learned never to promise.

“Come back safe,” she said as Tormund set Celia down. 

He bowed his head. “Of course.”

—

Men and women were working in the courtyard, rolling cars of hay and water. A blacksmith was working in his forge hammering away and shouting orders to the people he was training. Sansa walked with Rickon and Celia in hand a s Littlefinger, Yohn Royce and Maester Wolkan walked alongside her on the balcony heading for the stairs. 

“How much do we have?” Sansa asked, looking at the grain that had been salvaged from all the glass gardens they could. 

“Four thousand bushels, my lady,” the maester said 

“And that means?”

“For the current occupants of the castle, it’s enough food for a year,” Yohn Royce answered. “Perhaps more.”

Sansa frowned, thinking. “What’s the longest winter in the past hundred years?”

“I’m not entirely certain,” Maester Wolkan said. “I’ll check Maester Luwin’s records. He kept a copy of every raven scroll.”

Rickon squeezed her hand at the mention of the old maester and Sansa squeezed his hand back. They began to walk down the stairs and Sansa held onto both of the children’s hands firmly, not wanting them to slip if someone ice had grown along the stops. Once they reached the bottom she began to speak again. 

“You’re telling me we don’t have enough food, especially not if all the armies of the North came back to Winterfell to defend it.”

The maester bowed his head. “No, my lady,‘odd likely not.”

“We must prepare for that eventuality. Every direction the threat comes from, this is the best place to be. We need to start building up our grain stores with regular shipments from every keep in the North. If we don't use it by winter's end we'll give it back to them, but if the entire North has to flee to Winterfell there won't be enough time to bring wagon loads of grain with them. And begin to expand the glass gardens. We must grow what we can when we can.”

“Very wise, my lady,” Yohn Royce offered. 

Sansa nodded and glanced at the maester. “You’ll see to it?”

Maester Wolkan bowed his head and left. Sansa continued on through the courtyard and watched as the smiths were hammering in breastplates. 

“Are they covering them with leather?”

“No, my lady,” answered the Valeman.

“Shouldn’t they? It would save them better from the real cold once it descends upon us.”

“They should indeed,” Yohn Royce said. “Pardon me, my lady.” He began to walk towards the blacksmith. “You there, why isn’t there leather on these?”

Sansa continued to move forward with the children and Baelish followed behind her. Sansa glanced at Brienne who was looking at her. Sansa bowed her head to let her know she was fine. 

“Command suits you,” Littlefinger said, his voice low. “The Northerners are all facing north worries about the threat beyond the Wall.”

“So they should be.”

“I know Cersei better than anyone here,” he continued. “If you turn your back on her—“

“You don’t know Cersei better than anyone here,” Sansa said. “If you did, you would have guessed how killing Joffrey was foolish and you would have known that bringing the Tyrell’s would only bring danger to myself and everyone else around her. L”

“I only meant to say—“

“That woman who murdered my mother, father, and brother is dangerous,” Sansa asked, turning to look at him. “Thank you for your wise counsel, but I assure you I am no bystander to all this.”

“One of two things will happen,” Baelish persisted. “Either the dead will defeat the living, in which all our troubles come to an end, or life will win out. And what then?” He walked a little more quickly so that he stood before Sansa. She saw Ghost bare his teeth silently and Rickon moved so he was slightly in front of her. “Don't fight in the north or the south. Fight every battle everywhere always in your mind. Everyone is your enemy, everyone is your friend, every possible series of events is happening all at once. Live that way and nothing will surprise you. Everything that happens will be something that you've seen before.”

Sansa opened her mouth to speak when a guard approached them. “Your grace, Lady Sansa,” the man said, his face as white as a sheet. “At the gate.”

Sansa continued to hold the children’s hands as she led them away from Littlefinger and went towards the gate where people had gathered around. Sansa narrowed her eyes as the crowd parted to reveal Bran in a cart. 

She would know her brother anywhere. He looked so much like Robb it hurt. It hurt so much. 

“Hello, Sansa,” he said softly. 

Tears came to Sansa’s eyes as Rickon let go of her hand. “Bran!”

Their little brother climbed onto the cart and wrapped his arms around his neck. Bran stroked Rickon’s back as Sansa tried to hold back the happy tears that began to stream down her cheeks. She went to her brother quickly and hugged him tightly. 

—

Rickon and Celia were in their lessons as Sansa and Bran sat next to the weirwood tree in the godswood. 

“I wish Jon was here,” she said. It felt as though this were the first time she was allowed to say it aloud, the first time she was able to admit it openly. 

“He will come back,” Bran replied, his voice calm. “He has much to do for the coming battle.”

Sansa chewed her lip. “You are Father’s last living trueborn son.”

“I can never be king,” he said. “I can never be Lord of Winterfell. I can never be lord of anything. I’m the three-eyed raven.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

Bran’s eyes grew distant and lonely. “It’s difficult to explain.”

“Try,” Sansa said. “Please, for me. I want to understand.”

He smiled sadly. He looked so much like Father in those moments, how he was in King’s Landing, how little she could remember him there. She tried never to picture him there, in the place he had died, but those were her most recent memories of him. 

“It means I can see everything,” he said. “Everything that’s ever happened to everyone. Everything that’s happening right now. It’s all pieces, fragments. I need to learn to see better. I was supposed to stay,” he said. “But you needed me. The pack survives, Sansa, I couldn’t leave you.” He looked at her earnestly. “When the king night comes, I need to be ready.”

“How do you know how to do it?” Sansa asked earnestly. 

“The one before me taught me. He was the three-eyed raven for so long… I don’t want to be like that Sansa.”

His eyes grew a little glassy and Sansa stood in worry, going to her brother, touching his shoulder hesitantly. “Bran—“

“I’m sorry for all that’s happened to you,” he said softly. “I’m sorry that Robb didn’t come for you. He should have come for you. I’m sorry he didn’t come for you, that he let his pride go for another woman, but not for his own sister.”

Sansa took a sharp breath and breathed out, shuddering in the cold. “It’s okay, Bran,” she said. “I understand.”

He shook his head. “Jon’s smarter,” her brother assured her. “He’s going to be smarter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bran is not a robot in this. He’s a kid that grew up too quickly and has been forced to learn things too quickly. He’s trying to be strong. He isn’t emotionless. 
> 
> And introducing Dany next chapter, but we’ll also get Jon’s initial impressions of Missandei!


	16. Jon VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder that this is not a Dany friendly fic.

The waves crashed over the dark rocks of the island as Jon and his men dragged their small boat to shore. They had left their larger one in the water, rowing to shore so that they might have a refuge away from the Targaryen woman if need be. 

Jon recognized Tyrion immediately. He had grown a beard since Jon had last seen him and his face was warm and lined from planning. Some dark skinned men dressed lightly and in leather were there as well and Jon could only guess that they were some of the Dothraki. They reminded him a little of the Free Folk in how they were built and, if he remembered any of his lessons about the world beyond Westeros, they had a similar culture. 

There was a young girl as well. She was perhaps a year or three older than Celia, but she was shaped like a summer reed. She had a darker complexion than the Dothraki men, but her hair was like a lion’s mane and her beets were the color of gold. She was dressed simply, in black with threads of red spilling through the trim, as though to add embellishment. 

“The bastard of Winterfell,” Tyrion said, drawing Jon from his thoughts. 

Jon bowed his head. “The dwarf of Casterly Rock.”

They were serious for only a moment, but then both smiled and shook hands. He had to play it as though Sansa had told him nothing, had not told him how the Imp had touched her in their wedding night, even when it was unconsummated. He had to act as though this was the same man he had last seen at the Wall. He had to hope that some of that man was there, or else there might be no reason in this upcoming meeting. 

“I believe we last saw each other on the top of the Wall,” Lord Tyrion said. 

“You were pissing off the edge if I remember right,” he said lowly. “You picked up some scars along the way.”

“As did you it seems,” lord Tyrion says and Jon grimaced, “it’s been a long road, but we’re both still here.” He then turned to Ser Davos. “I’m Tyrion Lannister,” he said, extending his hand. 

However, Ser Davos did not mirror the action. “Davos Seaworth.”

“Ah,” Lord Tyrion said, retracting his hand. “The Onion Knight. We fought on opposite sides at the Battle of Blackwater.”

“Aye,” Ser Davos said. “My son’s had been quite the seamen. But very few are able to survive contact with wildfire.”

Lord Tyrion pursed his lips but turned to the little girl a t his side. She was taller than him by a foot or so. “This is Missandei of Naath. She is the queen’s closest friend and translator.”

Why on earth would a grown woman’s closest friend be a little girl? Did she not have ladies she could depend on? She knew Sansa was gathering a few so that many of the women who had lost men in the previous wars would be able to find a group to depend upon. Did this dragon queen have no other that she called friend?

“Welcome to Dragonstone,” the girl said. She was so gently spoken that Jon had to smile. “Our queen knows this is a long journey and she appreciates the effort you have made on her behalf. If you wouldn’t mind handing over your weapons?”

Jon frowned and glanced at Ser Davos and his companions and them to Lord Tyrion. 

“Does your queen not trust us?” he asked the Imp. 

“It is a precaution, you understand,” was the reply. “No harm shall come to you that you should need them.”

“And are we to be offered bread and salt?” Jon demanded lightly. “My men aren’t heavily armed, your queen’s are. We have come for diplomatic reasons. Even my father did not ask Robert Baratheon to give up his weapons. Even the Freys did not and they killed my brother and Lady Stark still. Forgive me if I do not trust your word, as it was your family who orchestrated the Red Wedding. We will keep our weapons and we shall be given bread and salt. Even if your queen is represented by you, surely a representative of House Stark doing so would be enough to make your queen believe we are not hostile.”

Lord Tyrion’s expression darkened but he spoke to the girl Missandei who spoke in a foreign language to the Dothraki who looked at each other for a moment before picking up the small boat Jon had come on and began to carry it away. 

Ah, so they would not be allowed to leave unless someone on this dragon queen’s side allowed it. 

“Please,” Missandei said in common. “This way.”

—

They made their way to the Dragonstone keep along a narrow stone pathway built into the cliffs. 

“And Sansa,” Lord Tyrion said. “I hear she is alive and well.”

Luckily the Imp was not looking at him, for Jon’s teeth began to grind. “She is.”

“Does she miss me terribly?” This time, Lord Tyrion did look back at him and saw Jon’s glare. “A sham marriage and unconsummated.”

“I didn’t ask,” Jon replied flatly. What was this queen thinking. He stiffened at a thought. If this queen dared to try and reinstate that marriage he would refuse it and call for a trial by combat to end such a marriage. He didn’t care that Sansa had asked him to be more careful. He would not let Sansa remain married to this man, not when most saw it as a sham anyway. 

The Imp coughed. “Anyway, she’s much smarter than she lets on.”

“People have always underestimated her,” was Jon’s reply. 

Lord Tyrion nodded. “At some point I want to hear how a Knight’s Watch recruit became King in the North.”

Jon glanced at Ser Davos. So they didn’t know about Rickon. The Onion Knight nodded. They wouldn’t correct them until they needed to. “As long as you tell me how a Lannister became Hand to Daenerys Targaryen.”

“A long and bloody tale,” Lord Tyrion replied. “To be honest, I was drunk for most of it.”

Jon did not find that funny at all, not when he was bringing a woman he was mostly drunk advising to Westeros, a woman whose family words were _fire and blood_ when the Seven Kingdoms was like kindling ready to be lit. 

“The North think I’m a fool for coming here,” Jon told him. 

“Of course they do,” Lord Tyrion chuckled. “If I was your Hand, I would have advised against it. General rule of thumb, Stark men don’t fare well when they travel south.”

“I am not a Stark,” Jon replied. “And perhaps you should be wondering why I am down here if you believe Sansa is smarter than she has previously let on.”

A roar echoed overhead and Jon and his men fell to the ground, pressing themselves into the stone steps. A black dragon flew over them, large and menacing. It flew up to the keep where a cream and a green dragon flew about. Jon looked at Davos in concern. He could only guess that the dragons did not have the connection with the queen as he had with Ghost. But if she did, then that was open hostility. 

Lord Tyrion helped Jon stand and he saw that Missandei was a little pale, but her gaze was downcast. 

“I’d say you get used to them,” Lord Tyrion said. “But you never really do.”

“With that display,” Jon said sternly. “I demand your queen offer us bread and salt herself. We are not here to declare war, we are here because you claimed your queen wished to talk. If this is how your queen treats and threatens potential allies who, at the moment, have no reason to think ill of her, I would hate to see how those who might offend her are treated. Your queen is a foreign one. I suggest you advise her how her Targaryen ways might be met by those who remember her father and remember Joffrey.”

Lord Tyrion looked grim. “Come,” he said at last. “Their mother is waiting for you.”

—

When Jon and his men entered the throne room, Missandei went to the throne at the end of the hall. The woman, who he could only guess was Daenerys Targaryen, was a peculiar looking woman. She was pretty, he supposed, but she looked like a ghost upon her throne, and her black dress, severe in its cut and styling, only made her look like a threat. By no means did Jon expect her to be in dresses of silk, especially since she supposedly rode dragons, but he had not expected her to dress as though she were not like them. Even in her clothes she looked like a foreign ruler. She did not even dress like those that served her. No, she represented no people that Jon knew dressed like that. 

“You stand in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen,” Missandei said, her voice loud against the quiet stone. Jon thought she would stop there, but she did not. “Rightful heir to the Iron Throne, rightful Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, the Mother of Dragons, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, The Unburnt, The Breaker of Chains.”

Jon wanted to laugh at the titles. What did it matter that she was the Khaleesi save for the men army she had brought was foreign? He did not even know what a khaleesi was. And Breaker of Chains? There were no chains to break in Westeros. 

He glanced at Ser Davos, who coughed. “This is Jon Snow. Regent to the North.”

Lord Tyrion smirked, but Jon doubted that he caught that Ser Davos had not called him king. If he had, he said nothing. 

“Thank you for traveling so far, my lord,” the queen spoke at last. Her accent was decidedly Westerosi and southern, but there was something about the way she said her vows that made it apparent that she was not from there at all. “I hope the seas were not too rough.”

“The winds were kind, your grace,” Jon replied. 

“Apologies,” Ser Davos said. “I have a thick Flea Bottom accent, I know. But Jon Snow is the king regent, your grace. He is not a lord.”

“Forgive me…”

“This is my Hand,” Jon said. “Ser Davos Seaworth. Your hand killed his sons.”

The queen looked at the Imp sharply but then turned back to Jon and asked Davos, giving them a simpering smile, as though she were used to men paying little attention to her words when she graced them with her notice. She reminded Jon of Queen Cersei or Prince Joffrey when they had been in Winterfell. “Forgive me, Ser Davos,” she said. “I never did receive a formal education.” Jon wanted to scoff. And so she was admitting to know knowing about politics or the kingdoms she had come to conquer. “But I could have sword the last King in the North was Torrhen Stark, who bent the knee to my ancestor Aegon Targaryen in exchange for his life and the lives of the Northmen. Torrhen Stark swore fealty to House Targaryen in perpetuity. But do I have my facts wrong?”

“I wasn’t there, your grace,” Ser Davos replied. “I cannot tell you how or why Torrhen Stark bent the knee to your ancestors, but I would like to give you advice, your grace. A lesson in your history, if you would allow me to, as alive to hear of it.”

Her smile froze upon her lips but she nodded her head to him. 

“The last King in the North was Robb Stark, the Young Wolf. He was elected by the Northmen after your Hand’s nephew unlawfully executed his father. The North is protective of the memory of King Robb and his mother, your grace, who were murdered on the orders and chin of House Lannister. I would suggest respecting that lesson should you wish to find allies in the North.”

The dragon queen all but purses her lips. Jon watched as Lord Tyrion and Missandei looked at their queen nervously. Ah, so she had a temper. 

“Even so,” she said. “He rebelled against House Lannister and Baratheon, not House Targaryen, which means that an oath is still an oath. It is an oath that has been carried down for generations in perpetuity. And what does perpetuity mean, Lord Tyrion?”

“Forever,” replied the Imp. 

“Forever,” the woman repeated. “So I assume, _my lord_ , that you’re here to bend the knee?”

“I am not.”

“Oh?” Her smile froze upon her lips and her violet eyes grew distant as though she were trying to control her anger. She did not hide it well. “Well, that is unfortunate. You’ve travelled all this way to break faith with House Targaryen?”

“You claim to not be well educated, your grace,” Jon said flatly. “Your brother kidnapped and possibly raped my aunt, took her from her family and all that knew her and left her to die in a tower. Your father burned by grandfather alive when he wished to seek justice and have his daughter returned to him, despite the ruin that might have befallen her. Your father watched as my uncle strangled himself to death on the flicker of hope that he might be allowed to save his father. Your father called for the head of my own. If your father had his wish, only one Stark would have been left, a boy barely fifteen. It was not my family that broke faith with House Targaryen. Torrhen Stark bent the knee to protect his family and his people. Your father nearly destroyed an entire noble house, he nearly destroyed House Stark and my father rose in rebellion alongside Robert Baratheon, not just because of what your brother did to my aunt or what your father did to my grandfather and uncle, they did it because your father was ready to kill them because they sought to have their smdaughter, sister, and betrothed returned to them.”

Daenerys Targaryen’s lip twitched int a brief snarl and a roar came from outside. “My father was an evil man,” she said. “On behalf of House Targaryen, I ask your forgiveness for the crimes he committed against your family. And I ask you not to judge a daughter by the sins of her father. Our two houses were allies for centuries. Those were the best centuries the kingdom's ever known. Centuries of peace and prosperity with the Targaryens sitting on the Iron Throne and a Stark serving as Warden of the North. I am the last Targaryen, Jon Snow. Honor the pledge your ancestor made to mine. Bend the knee and I will name you Warden of the North. Together we will save this country from those who would destroy it.”

“I shall not hold you for your father’s crimes if you do not hold me to the vows my ancestor made to yours. House Stark ruled for thousands of years and did what was best for their people. The Targaryens had rebellion after rebellion. I am certain there are books about it in the library of this keep. Perhaps you might spend time reading and learning about the country you wish to conquer instead of assuming there would be none to defy you for legitimate reasons.”

“Why are you here, Jon Snow?” Queen Daenerys demanded slowly, firmly, angrily. 

“Because I need your help, and you need mine.”

The woman smirked, the smugness was ridiculous and only made her look foolish. She was too open in her disdain and her superiority. “Did you see three dragons flying overhead when you arrived?”

“I did.”

“And did you see the Dothraki, all of who have sworn to kill for me?”

“I had wondered why we had been offered no bread and salt, despite being invited here to speak, when nothing in Lord Tyrion’s letter said anything about bending the knee. I suppose you are better than the Freys. They at least pretended to have some civility.”

The dragon queen scowled. “You believe I need your help?” she asked, ignoring his words. “I do not need your help.”

“Not to defeat Cersei,” Ser Davos said. “You could storm King’s Landing tomorrow and the city would fall. Hells, we almost took it and we didn’t have dragons.”

“Almost,” Tyrion reiterated. 

Jon truly wanted to smack the little man. It was as though he cared not that the man whose sons had died was standing before him. 

“You haven’t stormed King’s Landing. Why not?” Jon asked. “The only reason I can see is that you don’t want to kill thousands of innocent people. It’s the fastest way to win the war, but you won’t do it. Which means you want the people of Westeros to like you, which, at the very least, makes you better than Cersei.”

“That doesn’t explain why I need your help,” the queen said firmly. 

“Because right now, you and I and Cersei and everyone else, we’re children playing at a game screaming that the rules aren’t fair.”

The queen turned to Lord Tyrion. “You told me you liked this man.”

“I do.”

“In the time since he’s met me he’s refused to call me queen, he’s refused to bend the knee, and now he’s calling me a child.”

“I believe he’s calling all of us children,” Lord Tyrion replied. “Figure of speech.”

“Your grace,” Jon said. “I have given you your proper title even though you do not grant me mine. I simply do not call you my queen for you are not. But that is not the point. Titles are pointless when everyone you know will die before winter is over if we don’t defeat the enemy to the North.”

“As far as I can see, you are the enemy to the North,” she replied. 

“I am not your enemy,” Jon said. “The dead are the enemy.”

The queen huffed a laugh. “The dead?” she asked skeptically and looked to Lord Tyrion. “Is that another figure of speech?”

The Imp opened his mouth to reply, but Jon spoke before he could. “The army of the dead is on the move.”

“The army of the dead?” Lord Tyrion repeated. 

“You don’t know me well, my lord, but you knew my father and the principles he taught his sons. Do you think I am a liar or a madman?”

“No,” Lord Tyrion replied. “I don’t think you’re either of those things.”

“The army of the dead is real,” Jon insisted. “The white walkers are real. The Night King is real. I’ve seen them. If they get past the Wall, and we’re squabbling amongst ourselves…” he stepped forward, but the Dothraki guards halted him. “We’re finished.”

The dragon queen looked at him for a long moment before standing and began to descend the stairs towards Jon. “I was born at Dragonstone,” she said. “Not that I can remember it. We fled, my brother and I, before Robert's assassins could find us. Robert was your father's best friend, no? I wonder if your father knew his best friend sent assassins to murder a baby girl in her crib. Not that it matters now of course. I spent my life in foreign lands. So many men have tried to kill me. I don't remember all of their names. I have been sold like a broodmare. I have been chained and betrayed, raped and defiled. Do you know what kept me standing through all those years in exile? Faith. Not in any gods. Not in myths and legends. In myself. In Daenerys Targaryen. The world hadn't seen a dragon in centuries until my children were born. The Dothraki hadn't crossed the sea. Any sea.” She stopped before Jon so that they stood nearly face to face. “They did so for me. I was born to rule the Seven Kingdoms. And I will.”

Jon shook his head. Were not some of those things true of Cersei? Were not some of those things true for Sansa? For so many women across Westeros. But she wouldn’t care about that, she would not care about what Sansa had been through. What Rickon had been through. What Celia had been through. What he had been through. It would not matter to her. Jon had half a mind to think that she would have thanked the Bolton’s and the Freys for killing Robb and Lady Catelyn. “You’ll be ruling over a graveyard if we don’t defeat the Night King,” he said instead. 

Lord Tyrion stepped beside Daenerys Targaryen and spoke to Jon plainly. “The war against my sister has already begun. You can’t expect us to halt hostilities and join you in fighting… waterbed you saw beyond the Wall.”

“You don’t believe him,” Ser Davos said. “I understand that. It sounds like nonsense.” Jon took a deep breath and sighed, but nodded. “But if destiny has brought Daenerys Targaryen back to our shores, it has also made Jon Snow King Regent in the North. You were the first to bring Dothraki to Westeros. He was the first to make allies with Wildlings and northmen. He was named Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. He was named King in the North. Not because of his birthright. He has no birthright. He's a damn bastard. All those hard son's of bitches chose him as their leader because they believe in him.” The queen turned her gaze from Ser Davos to look at him now, something glittered in her violet eyes and he did not like it. “All those things you don't believe in, he faced those things. He fought those things for the good of his people. He risked his life for his people. He took a knife in the heart for his people. He gave his own—“

“Davos,” he warned. The knight bowed his head, but Jon not miss the look Daenerys Targaryen and Lord Tyrion shared. 

“If we don't put aside our enmities and band together we will die,” Ser Davos continued. “And then it doesn't matter whose skeleton sits on the Iron Throne.”

“If it doesn’t matter, you might as well kneel,” Lord Tyrion said. “Swear your allegiance to Queen Daenerys. Help her to defeat my sister and together our armies will protect the north.”

Jon laughed. “You do not know the North, Lord Tyrion. You have been gone for so long I do not think you remember what the south has done to the North. There is barely any time for formalities. While we stand here debating—“

“It takes no time to bend the knee. Pledge your sword to her cause.”

“And why would I do that?” Jon demanded. He looked to the Targaryen woman. “I mean no offense, your grace, but I do not know you. As far as I can tell, your claim to the throne rests entirely on your father’s name. And my own father fought to overthrow the Mad King. Your family lost it due to conquest and therefore you must win it by conquest. The lords and ladies of the North placed their trust in me to lead them through the war against the dead and I will continue to do so as well as I can. I had hoped perhaps that you would fight for the people you claim to be here to save, oh breaker of chains, but I wonder now, seeing who comprises your armies, if you only broke their chains so that they would fight for you, not because you cared.”

The queen lifted her chin. “By declaring yourself King in the North, you and your people are in open rebellion.”

“And what are you going to do?” Jon asked. “You have not offered myself or my men bread and salt. You have given no promises to let us leave unharmed. You can kill us here, where we stand. But you will be seen by all to be no better than your father. The North will see that you are no better than Cersei or Joffrey. The North will not bend to you. We have only won our home back. If you feel any connection to this place despite having no memories here, if you feel any relief in safety in reclaiming your house’s ancestral seat, then you can only have an ounce of understanding of what it is like for the Starks to regain our home after so long being torn away from it. We will not give our home up so easily as our ancestors did.”

A bald man enters the throne room and approached the queen and began to whisper in her ear. Her expression hardened. “You must forgive my manners,” she said. “You will both be tired after your long journey. We'll have baths drawn for you and supper sent to your rooms.”

She began to speak to her guards and they stepped forward to take Jon and Ser Davos and their men out. 

“Am I your prisoner?” Jon asked firmly. 

She had already begun to walk away. She paused and looked back at him. “Not yet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was over 4k long!
> 
> We have finally met Missandei and Dany. We will get more of them in Missandei’s first chapter which is after Celia’s ❤️
> 
> Also, Jon and Davos out there spitting facts!


	17. Celia VI

Lady Sansa brushed out Celia’s hair, humming softly to herself. She did not recognize the song and would have asked what it was if it did not seem like Lady Sansa was distracted. 

Celia knew that the lady missed Jon Snow. There were moments where Lady Sansa’s gaze seemed distant, as though she were trying to reconcile that Jon Snow was not there, that they would go down and break their fast and he would be there to kiss her hand or kiss the top of Celia’s head. 

She missed Jon Snow. 

She wondered if she missed her da like this whenever he was gone. Celia had never missed Tormund like this. She had never felt such a gaping hole tap at her chest when she woke up and remembered that Tormund was gone to fight the crows or go with Mance. 

This missing was different. It was like how she missed her ma sometimes. It must have been how she missed her da, even though she couldn’t remember him at all. A presence that she knew she was meant to have, but doesn’t recall ever having. 

But she knew Jon Snow and she missed him. She missed him and she wanted him to come back. She hoped that she would come back. 

Lady Sansa missed him too and Celia knew that Jon Snow loved Lady Sansa, so of course he would come back. He would come back and everything would be fine. 

Lady Sansa began to braid Celia’s hair like her own. Celia loved it when the lady braided her hair. It made Celia feel like she was a Stark.

“The North remembers,” she said in a deep voice.

Lady Sansa paused. “Did you just mimic Jon?”

Celia’s cheeks turned red as Lady Sansa began to laugh and soon Celia began to laugh as well, the sadness rushing away from them like a flurry of snow.

—

Celia had wanted to see Lord Bran. He was Rickon’s older brother and she wanted to see him since he had properly settled back in Winterfell. 

However, the two children had to be taken by Lady Meera Reed. She was Lord Reed’s daughter, the one who had the idea of how to rescue Rickon. She reminded Celia a little of Lady Lyanna and Lady Brienne. She was a strong person and she seemed to be really smart and Celia wanted to stick close to her. 

Lady Meera had both Celia and Rickon by the hand and she led them to Lord Bran’s room, but stopped when she saw the door was open. She lifted her hand and motioned for them both to be quiet and the children nodded. Lady Meera moved quietly, like a hunter, and made her way closer to the door and the all leaned against the wall as to not make too much noise and to keep them from leaning forward to look in. 

“The other dagger,” came the voice of Littletoe… Littlefinger. “The one that took her life, I would have stopped the dagger with my own heart if I could have. I wasn’t there for her when she needed me most. But I am here for her now. To do what he would have done, to protect her children. Anything I can do for you, Brandon, you need only ask.”

 _Lord Bran_ , Celia opened her mouth to correct him, but Lady Meera covered her mouth to keep her from speaking. Celia didn’t know who Brandon was, but this was certainly Lord Bran’s room.

“Do you know who this belonged to?” Came Lord Bran’s voice.

“No,” replied the weasel. “That very question was what started the War of the Five Kings. In a way, that dagger made you what you are today. Forced from your home, driven out into the wilds beyond the Wall. I imagine you’ve seen things most men wouldn’t believe.” They were both quiet for a moment, but Celia heard whispering fabric and wondered what they were doing. “To go through all that and make your way home again only to find such chaos in the world, I can only imagine—“

“Chaos is a ladder, Lord Baelish,” came Lord Bran’s voice. “And I am wondering when you will fall.”

Lady Meera then pulled Celia and Rickon forward. 

Littlefinger looked up at the three of them, his eyes narrowed slightly. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you, Lord Stark,” he said standing. 

“I’m not Lord Stark,” Lord Bran said. “There is my brother King Rickon, my brother King Regent Jon Snow, and my sister Lady Sansa of Winterfell.”

Littlefinger bowed and walked passed Celia, Rickon, and Lady Meera.

“What’s that?” Rickon asked, pointing to Lord Bran’s chair. 

“Maester Wolkan built it for me so I can move around more easily. He said he found it in Maester Luwin’s old documents.” Sadness flittered across his features and Rickon shifted uncomfortably at the name. “It appears he knew I would always grow up to need one.” Lord Bran paused. “You’re thinking about leaving.” 

“I am not,” Lady Meera replied. Celia and Rickon looked up at her. 

“Not?” Lord Bran repeated. 

“You may think you do not need me anymore, Bran, but you do.” 

“No, I don’t.” 

“My father is here, Bran,” he said. “You’re here. I am staying here.” 

“I do not need you to.” 

“I’m staying.” 

“You’re safer,” Lord Bran’s voice raised loudly that Celia and Rickon jumped slightly in surprise. “You’re safer if you return home.”

Lady Meera let go of Celia and Rickon’s hands. “My place is with you and no matter how hard you try to push me away, I will be with you. I made my choice. Jojen made his choice. Summer made his choice. Hodor made his choice in a way. I will not let you deny me mine. I’m staying with you. Jojen says you are the only one that matters. Not dragons or lions or even wolves. _You_ matter and I’m going to protect you. There is nothing you can say that will change my mind.” 

Lord Bran looked to Lady Meera for a long time and then sighed. His gaze then turned to Celia and Rickon. “If you must look after me, look after them too,” he said. “They will be important for what comes before and after.” 

—

One of the Knights of the Vale was heading the training with some of the children in Winterfell. Rickon was in another group with Lady Brienne. Celia hated it, but both the knight and Lady Brienne said it was better for them to learn separately so they could know what to do in case they ever got separated. 

Celia thought it was stupid. She was never going to get separated from Rickon, or Lady Sansa for that matter. 

But, she didn’t want to be rude as that would make Lady Sansa disappointed, so she didn’t argue too much with the person teaching her and some of the other children. 

However, Celia didn’t like the knight training her. He was blond haired and blue eyed. He introduced himself as Ser Hairy and Celia thought it was a stupid name. He didn’t have any hair on his face at all. He wasn’t hairy. 

He was also one of the knights who had talked about Lady Sansa getting married to one of them. The very thought made her scowl, however no one seemed to notice her discontent. 

Ser Hairy motioned for her to come forward and to pretend that he was one of the Others. 

“How would you attack me if I was one of the undead?”

Celia thought about it for a moment. She gripped the knife Jon Snow had given her and then she rushed forward as Ser Hairy readied himself. He was safely padded and covered in leather except for one place. She aimed a kick just so and it got Ser Hairy gasping and on his knees. 

At that, Celia ran away, rushing to Rickon and Lady Brienne as a couple of the other Knights of the Vale shouted and followed after her. Celia rushed to Rickon and hid behind his back, under his cloak as the Knights of the Vale continued to shout at her. Lady Brienne demanded to know what was going on and the knights told her what Celia had done. 

Rickon glanced under his arm to look back at Celia. 

“It’s the one that wanted to marry Lady Sansa,” she whispered. 

Rickon’s mouth twisted into a frown. “She took him down,” he said. “I don’t see what’s wrong with that. Maybe it can work on the Others too. Ask one of the Free Folk.” 

All the men were mad, but Lady Brienne sighed. “I shall teach her properly,” she said. “Return to your own lessons.” Lady Brienne then appraised Celia under Rickon’s cloak. “However, I will be speaking to Lady Sansa about this.”

—

Lady Sansa had been disappointed, but she had smiled once Lady Brienne had left. 

Rickon and Celia curled around Ghost and fell asleep near the fire as she did some of the things she needed to do as acting regent of the North. 

Celia hoped that Jon Snow returned soon. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I officially do not have Covid! (All my tests have come back negative so luckily the scare was nothing 🥳)  
> And next week we will have Missandei’s first POV and a new Celiaverse fic will start!)


	18. Missandei I

_ Come back! _

She could still hear it sometimes, the screams. She can remember the chaos of the fighting pit, the smell of burning flesh. She could still remember the men in the copper masks and their swords coated with the blood of the Unsullied and Dothraki. 

_ Come back! _

She remembered Marselen wrapping his arms around her body to keep her safe as she raised her arms up into the air. 

_ Come back! _

She remembered her voice barely reaching over the sound of the fire, of the burning, of the screams, as the queen flew higher and higher into the air as the world around Missandei begin to burn. 

_ Come back! _

She remembered being left behind, left far behind until the queen was but a speck in the distant sky. 

She remembered the chaos left to them. She remembered what happened after. 

Missandei remembered the smell of charred flesh, of raspy breaths fanning against the cool air of the evening as the action became too painful to bear. She remembered holding the prince’s and as he cried out for his father and sister and mother. She remembered praying to his gods so that he would be alright. 

_ Come back! _

She remembered waiting for the queen to come back, waiting on the balcony for the queen to appear on her dragon, ready to come for all of them, ready to save them. Who were they without their  _ mhysa _ ?

She remembered the queen letting go of her hand and rushing to Drogon, rushing to him, away from Missandei, away from her people. Away, far away. 

_ Come back! _

A roar echoed across the halls of Dragonstone and Missandei was shaken awake by the sound of it. 

She curled into herself. 

The queen no longer asked for Missandei at night so she didn’t feel so alone. Missandei felt alone. She felt so very alone at night in a land she did not feel safe in. 

If Marselen were still on Dragonstone, Missandei would have gone to him, gone crawling to the place where the Unsullied slept and curled into her brother’s chest and listened as he sang to her softly. Everyone cared for the queen, but Marselen was the one who cared for Missandei. 

But her only brother was gone, he had gone to see what this land that their queen had brought them to was like. He sailed with Yara Greyjoy and her brother. They sailed. 

Missandei curled closer into herself under her covers and tried to go back to sleep. 

She was afraid, however, to drift. If she drifted again, she would go back to that memory, of the queen letting go of her hand and slipping from her reach and flying far away, leaving Missandei and the rest behind. 

_ Come back! _

Another rumbling roar echoed across the sky like thunder and Missandei curled into a small ball and covered her ears. She did not like it. She did not like it at all. 

—

The queen had just finished her bath and got ready for the day and that left Missandei, Irri, and Jhiqui to clean up the chamber. It was cold and Missandei had learned that if they did not clean the room right away, then the water might freeze and it would be even harder to clean. 

Irri and Jhiqui did as they always did and talked. Talked often about things that Missandei did not care to hear about. It was usually about men, one of the Unsullied or one of the Dothraki. Never about Missandei’s brother. She was the only one allowed to talk about her brother. She liked that Irri and Jhiqui didn’t take an interest in her brother. She liked having her brother care about only her and the queen. 

“What did you think of the Northmen when you saw them, Missandei?” Irri asked. 

“I heard they are wild, like the Dothraki,” Jhiqui added. “I heard that they turn into wolves when they are angry and that they have ice stuck to their bears.”

Missandei shrugged. Everyone was different, even if they came from the same place. The Unsullied were all different in one way or another. The Dothraki were all different too. 

“Ser Jorah was from the North,” Missandei says instead. 

“Then they shall be as loyal as him,” Irri decided. 

“I heard that Ser Jorah was forced to leave there,” Jhiqui whispered, as though it were some great secret. “I heard that he was told to leave because he sold slaves.”

Missandei narrowed her eyes. That did not sound right. It was true that Ser Jorah was a little gruff, but he did not ever speak out against the queen over freeing the slaves. And the queen would not have kept Ser Jorah for so long if he sold slaves. 

“Ser Jorah is loyal to the queen,” Missandei said. “He came for her.”

Irri snorted but nodd. It was the movement all adults did when they did not wish to argue with her. “Then I am sure his fellow Northemen will love the queen as he did.”

Missandei frowned. “This one does not think that they cared for the queen much,” she said. “One called himself a king and they did not come to bend the knee as the Sand Snakes and the Ironborn did.”

The women glanced at one another. They smirked knowingly at one another and Missandei did not like when they did that either. She did not like when they treated her like a child that would not understand what they were talking about. Missandei knew a lot about the world, a lot more than they cared to know. 

“What does the Northern king look like?” Irri asked. 

Missandei thought for a moment. “He has a long plain face with dark hair and a beard.”

Jhiqui huffed. “He must not be that handsome. I’m sure that he will come to know our auee/

Beauty and graces. So few can deny her anything.”

“If he does not fall at her feet soon then he must be one of those men who enjoy the company of others of his sex.” Irri said with a knowing grin. 

Missandei narrowed her eyes. That could not be the only reason, surely. There were plenty of other men who did not like the queen. The masters had not liked her and they had wives and children. 

“This one wonders if he is married.”

“I’m sure that Lord Tyrion would have said something, or Lord Varys, if that were true.” Jhiqui assured her. “I’m sure the Northern king will come to see and love the queen’s beauty. It’s only a matter of time. Whether he is married or not.”

Missandei said nothing. There was no reason to. Irri and Jhiqui had already made up their minds. 

—

Missandei stood at the walkways of the keep looking out over the docks. The queen was speaking privately with Lord Tyrion and did not need her there. 

Her brother and the Unsullied that had gone with Yara and Theon Greyjoy were not back yet. Even so, she looked out at the sea, waiting to see if there was even a smudge on the horizon. Marselen would come back soon. He was the only brother she had left. He was the only one who remembered everything else, who remembered Naath more clearly than she did. He remembered the butterflies and the crystal blue water. She wonders what would have happened if she had not been so frightened of slavers. She wonders what it would have been like to go back to Naath. 

But the queen had only asked if  _ she  _ would go. Marselen had not been asked. She had lost Mossador, she would not lose Marselen. Could not lose him. The masters had taken so much, the harpy as well. She would not leave Marselen. 

She heard footsteps and turned to see the king of the Northmen coming up the walkway. He was prone to walking, the king. He was not a king though, not a king like the queen was. This king was crowned because he was a man and because of his name. He had not fought or suffered as the queen had. 

He was gloomy too where Missandei’s queen was bright. 

The Northman stopped and looked at her. “You are Missandei of Naath, are you not?”

She nodded, unsure why he was making sure that was who she was. It was not as though there were other little girls who served the queen or looked like Missandei. 

“Why do you stare out to the sea?” he asked. “That is not the direction of Naath. Do you look for something towards Westeros?”

Missandei frowned. Surely she was not supposed to talk of such things. She glanced to Lord Tyrion who was by the Northman’s side. The Hand of the Queen nodded. She supposed it was alright to say a few things, not something drastic, but a few. 

“This one is waiting for her brother to come back on his ship,” she replied. 

The Northman nodded and looked out at the sea. “It is normal for a child to miss their siblings. I miss my own.” His brow lowered, his eyes narrowed as he looked out upon the horizon. “I wonder if they are looking for my return as much as you are looking for the return of your brother.”

“You have siblings?”

The Northman nodded. “I have a little girl waiting for me as well.” A small smile came upon his lips. “She’s waiting for me with my sister.” His grey eyes then turned to Missandei. The light caught them differently and, for some odd reasons, they reminded Missandei of the queen’s. “She’s a little younger than you.” He touched her cheek and wiped away a tear that had strayed from her eyes due to the wind. “I may not be your brother, but I know what it is like to have little girls wait for me to come home. Rest well and do not fret too much. There is nothing that breaks a heart more than seeing how much you have been missed and how much loneliness you were not able to stop.”

He straightened and then bowed his head. Missandei did the same and watched as he left with Lord Tyrion. 

She hoped that he did not make the queen angry. 

—

Missandei did not like Westeros. She did not like the darkness of the island or the dreariness of the skies. She did not like the cold or how the wind stung her cheeks whenever she walked outside. She was waiting for the queen, Irri and Jhiqui walking with her talking and giggling together about something Missandei didn’t care to pay attention to. They were friends with each other, but she did not like them much. She did not like that they did not see the queen as the breaker of chains. 

Missandei watched as the queen flew on the back of Drogon. She watched as the queen was a shadow upon the sky. 

Missandei’s heart trembled in her chest whenever she saw the queen flying. She was afraid that, one day, she might fly far away again. She was afraid that the queen would leave her behind. 

But no, the queen said that Missandei was important, that she needed Missandei. She needed Missandei as Ser Barristan had needed her. The queen would not leave her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who has included Missandei’s brothers as well as Irri and Jhiqui! This author!
> 
> I’ve also started up another Celiaverse contest with prizes of one shots written for the winners (which will probably end up being everyone lol) for more info, check out my tumblr!
> 
> Also, click next in the Celiaverse series because I have a new fic up every Tuesday now and it’s called Tenpest Grove.


	19. Sansa VI

Sansa sat at her father’s desk, reviewing documents and statistics. She had never been good with numbers, but she did well enough to act as the lady of the keep and her brother’s regent. 

Two guards knocked at the door and, when she allowed them to enter, they looked concerned. “What is it?”

“There was a woman at the front gate, she wanted to come in, but we didn’t recognize her and her accent wasn’t quite northern.” The first guard appeared concerned, as though he had seen a ghost of some sort. 

“And?” Sansa asked. 

“We told her to wait,” said the other. “We were standing right next to her.”

“When we turned around, she had gone, my lady,” the first continued. “She gave no name or anything.”

“She came asking for a Ser Rodrick and Maester Luwin.”

Sansa paused and gave her full attention to the two men. They were only a little older than she was and they were of the Vale. They had not grown up in Winterfell. 

“Don’t trouble yourself over it, my lady,” the first guard said. “We’ll find her.”

A smile spread upon her lips. “You don’t have to. I know where she is.”

—

She was looking up at their father’s statue in the crypt when Sansa approached her. She turned when she heard Sansa’s footsteps and she looked so different. Her face was long and she was tanned. Her Stark Grey eyes reminded Sansa a little of their Uncle Benjen, but she could see bits of their father in her, bits of Jon. 

“Do I have to call you Lady Stark now?” she asked as Sansa stopped in front of her.

She was a little taller than Sansa now and it made her heart ache. They had been separated for so long. Instead of answering, Sansa stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Arya’s neck and pulled her close. Arya’s arms wrapped around her as well and they stood there for a long moment before pulling away. 

“You shouldn’t have run from the guards,” Sansa admonished. 

“I didn’t run,” her sister replied. “You just need better guards.” Sansa merely smiled at her. “It suits you, Lady Stark. Jon left you in charge?”

“Until he returns,” Sansa replied. “I hope he comes back soon. I remember how happy he was to see me. When he sees you, his heart will probably stop. You were always his favorite sister.” For some reason that fact did not bother her. 

Arya smiled and then turned to look at their father’s statue. “It doesn’t look like him,” she said softly. “It should have been carved by someone who knew his face.”

“Everyone who knew his face was dead.”

“We’re not,” Arya said. “Perhaps we can have it remade.”

“When it is all over,” Sansa agreed. 

At that, Arya turned to her. “They say you killed Joffrey. Did you?”

“I wish I had,” she said. She can still remember the way his face had colored, the way he was gasping, Cersei’s screams. “It was someone else. I was just the person they blamed.”

Arya nodded. “I was angry when I heard someone else had done it,” she said. “However long my list got, he was always first.”

“Your list?”

“Of people I’m going to kill.”

Sansa laughed and Arya joined her after a short moment. It was then that Sansa could tell her sister had not been joking. “Who did you get back to Winterfell?”

“It’s a long story,” Arya said. “I imagine yours is too.”

“Yes, but it isn’t a very pleasant one.”

“Mine neither,” Arya said. “But our stories aren’t over yet.”

Sansa smiled. “No, they’re not.” They hugged. “Arya,” she said gently. “Bran and Rickon are home too.”

Arya squeezed her just a little more tightly and Sansa smiled gently into her hair.

—

She took Arya to Bran first as Rickon was in his studies with Maester Wolkan and she did not wish to disturb his progress anymore than he was disrupting it himself. 

Bran was sitting next to the weirwood tree and Meera was standing nearby, leaning against the bark. Lord Reed occasionally came as well, but he was spending most of his time teaching the people how to fight and, more specifically, how to evade. 

“You came home,” Bran said, looking at Arya carefully. 

Arya’s breath seemed to shudder in the air beside them and Sansa watched as she went to their brother and hugged him tightly. Bran touched her back and Arya let go, stepping away for a moment to get a full look at him. 

“I saw you at the crossroads,” he said plainly. 

“You saw me?” she asked. 

“I see quite a lot now,” Bran replied. 

“He has… visions now,” Sansa explained. Even she did not fully understand it all and she could tell that going into detail did not help Bran at all. He was worried, Meera had informed her, of saying something he shouldn’t. 

“I thought you might go to King’s Landing,” he said, looking at Arya with slightly distant eyes. 

“So did I,” Arya admitted. 

Sansa narrowed her eyes slightly. “Why would you go back there?”

“Cersei is in her list of names,” Bran replied. 

“Who else is on your list?” Sansa asked. 

Arya shook her head. “Most of them are dead already.”

Bran then produced a dagger. He unsheathed it and Sansa recognized it as Valyrian steel. She had seen Jon’s sword often enough to know the difference in the clarity of the blade, especially in the sunlight reflected on the snow. 

“Where did you get this?” Arya demanded.

“Littlefinger gave it to me.”

Sansa narrowed her eyes as Arya turned to her. “Littlefinger,” she said. “He’s here?”

Sansa took a deep breath. “He has declared for House Stark,” she said, not wishing to go into a deeper reason out in the open, not when Littlefinger had made it apparent that he cared not for the sacred nature of the godswood. “Why would he give you a dagger?”

“He thought I’d want it,” he replied. 

“Why?”

“Because it was meant to kill me.”

The very thought of what could have happened made Sansa’s heart stuttered in her chest. She never wanted to think of losing anyone in their pack again. Never. “The cutthroat after your fall?”

“Why would a cutthroat have a Valyrian dagger?”

“Someone very wealthy wanted me dead,” Bran replied. “But it does not matter. The person who ordered it is already dead and the instigator will be soon as well.”

Sansa chewed her lip. “Littlefinger wouldn’t but you anything unless he thought he was getting something back.”

“It doesn’t matter, Sansa,” he said, looking up at her. “Trust me. Besides, I don’t want it.” He resheathed the dagger and held it out to Arya.

She took it carefully. “Are you sure? It’s Valyrian steel.”

“It’s wasted on a cripple,” he replied. “Besides, you’ll need it to help Jon. He can’t do it alone.”

“Do what alone?” Sansa asked.

“The lone wolf dies, Sansa,” Bran said. “But the pack survives.”

—

Rickon didn’t recognize Arya and Sansa could see the hurt in Arya’s eyes flicker quickly. 

“I know who you are,” he said hesitantly. He held into Celia’s hand for comfort and Sansa was glad he didn’t feel alone or that he had to always act trying around the wildling girl. “I just don’t… I don’t remember you.”

Arya nodded slowly. “You were really young when I last saw you,” she said. “And so was I. Maybe we can get to know one another better as time goes on.”

Rickon nodded silently, but he looked Arya over as though trying desperately to remember who she was to him outside of a woman with a name held close to his heart. 

“And who are you?” Arya asked, turning her attention to the girl beside their brother. 

Celia curtsied, still holding Rickon’s hand. “Celia.”

Arya smiled. “You don’t have to curtsy to me.”

“But your Rickon, Lady Sansa, Lord Bran, and Jon Snow’s sister and I’m meeting you for the first time.”

Arya chuckled. “And where are you from?”

“Beyond the Wall,” she said. “Jon Snow protected us from the Others and brought us to Castle Black and Ghost protected me when the bad men came and hurt Jon Snow.”

Arya’s gaze narrowed and she turned to Sansa. 

“There’s something you need to know about Jon,” she said. “But later.” She looked to Rickon and Celia. “You two need to get back to your lessons. I’ll see you two for our last meal of the day.”

Rickon and Celia nodded and left for their lessons with Brienne. 

Arya looked at her. “What happened to Jon?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next is a chapter from Dany’s POV! 😱 it’s going to be interesting because I’ve never written from her “canon” POV before. Hope I do okay. 
> 
> Also, there will be conflict between the stark girls mainly because communication and Arya is at a rather difficult place when it comes to trusting people in general. But it won’t be as bad as what D&D did. 
> 
> A Celiaverse contest is up and the information is pinned at the top of my tumblr.


	20. Daenerys I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little over 3k 😱

Daenerys looked over the Painted Table with the map of Westeros laid upon it. Aegon the Conqueror had made this map, had planned out his conquest of the Seven Kingdoms, bringing Westeros peace and stability, something that had not been possible. 

Daenerys remembered a flicker of a memory, of a time when Viserys still held their mother’s crown tightly in his grasp. He had told her of the Painted Table, of their mother letting him play with the different pieces to make the progress of their brother Rhaegar and the rest of their loyalist troops. 

And now, here Daenerys stood, coming up with her own strategy to take back what was rightfully hers, which had belonged to her the moment she had been born in this very keep. 

Light shone from the sliver of windows of the four directions. North. South. East. West. They seemed to converge on King’s Landing, taunting her, reminding her of her goal, of her birthright. Her birthright that her Hand was distracting her from. 

“Dragonglass?” she repeated. 

“Yes,” the Imp replied plainly. “Volcanic glass, obsidian. He says you have a tremendous amount of it here.”

It sometimes annoyed her, the way he spoke around things, as though being direct was far too simple for a man of his intellect. 

“Why are we talking about glass?” she demanded. She motioned towards the Southron window. “We just lost two of our allies.”

“Which is why I was speaking to Jon Snow,” he replied in the laid back way he always did. “A potential ally.”

Daenerys sighed. “And what does this proclaimed King of the North want with dragonglass?”

The title was ridiculous. Pretentious. He was a bastard for one thing. He had been a bastard since birth. And there was the way he had spoken to her upon their first meeting. It had her seething. She knew it would not do well for her to burn him alive, not yet, he might still prove useful, even if he is the bastard son of the usurper dog. She would be better than Ned Stark and Robert Baratheon. 

“Apparently it can be turned into weapons that kill the undead and their foot soldiers, or stop them, destroy them.” He paused. “I’m unsure of the proper wording.”

Daenerys put her hand on her hip and tried to think as she walked across the length of the Painted Table. These Others, the undead. They sounded like nothing but fantasy, a reason given to say why the North would not bend to her, why they would not help her gain her rightful inheritance as the last Targaryen. She walked towards her Hand. He was often filled with sweet words and he would not lie to her. No, he would not. He thought too highly of her to lie for her sake. He would tell her the truth. After all, this was getting in the way of his own revenge. “And what do you think of this Army of the Dead and White Walkers and Night Kings?”

“I’d very much like to believe that Jon Snow is wrong,” Tyrion replied, looking towards the North. “But a wise man once said that you should never believe a thing simply because you want to believe it.”

Daenerys could see the logic in that, but she gave a slight pause. “Which wise man said this?”

“I don’t remember,” he said, not looking her in the eyes. 

Daenerys did not move her gaze from him. “Are you trying to present your own statements as ancient wisdom?”

“I would never do that.” However, when she did not alleviate her gaze he continued. “To you.”

Daenerys’ lips formed a tight line and she moved away from the Imp. As a child she had once thought she was never meant for anything but to be Viserys’ queen, a little doll for her brother to dress and dictate as he liked, but no. No, she had been made for greater things. She was Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, the Mother of Dragons, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains. She was all these things. The men of Westeros most likely doubted that she deserved any of these titles, a woman. A beautiful woman. Men often only saw the surface. They did not see what laid beneath it. And that is what made men foolish. It was what led to the destruction of her house, for the love of a beautiful woman. Daenerys scoffed. She doubted the Northern lady was a true Valyrian beauty. And yet she had been the reason for the fall of Daenerys’ house. Now, she would make it rise. Out of the ashes she would bring Westeros to its knees and remind the men who held the wheel that she was the one who would stop their petty games. 

“The reason I believe Jon Snow,” Tyrion continued. “Is because he is here. All his advisors, especially his sister, my wife, the Lady Sansa, would have told him not to come. I would have told him not to come, yet he is here anyway.” Daenerys tilted her head, absorbing his words and stared into the fire. “You don’t have to believe him. Let him mine the dragonglass. If he’s wrong, it’s worthless. You didn’t even know it was here. It’s nothing to you. Give him something by giving him nothing.” Daenerys turned her head as the Imp approached. “Take a step toward a more productive relationship with a possible ally. Keep him occupied while we focus on the task at hand. Casterly Rock.” 

Then, Daenerys remembered something. Jon Snow’s companion, the uncultured man with the strange accent. “What was it that the man, Ser Davos, said?” she said, pondering aloud. “About taking a knife in the heart for his people.” The wording had been strange. It had been as though Jon Snow wanted it to be secret. It felt important, but Daenerys couldn’t place her finger on it. If the Red Priestess had still been on Dragonstone, she would have asked her. “Did you notice that?”  
“You must allow them their flights of fancy,” Tyrion said, shaking his head and dismissing the thought. “It’s dreary in the North and they are a culture of their own. It no doubt doesn’t mean anything literal.”

Daenerys wasn’t certain of that. She was not certain of that at all, but she let that thought pass and turned to the fire, debating on if she should give Jon Snow anything if he did not bend the knee. 

—

Daenerys looked at two of her dragons as they flew over the ocean and the mountains in the distance. Drogon was asleep on one of those mountains, letting his brothers play without him, no doubt watching them if he were not napping, yet Daenerys sensed that he was. Her connection to Drogon was stronger than the rest. But it only made sense, Daenerys was his rider and he was named for her first husband. 

The thought of Drogo squeezed at her heart, but the pain was not as it had been when she first lost him, or the second. She was a woman still, after all, and still mourned her losses. But she did not let them hold her down as they did for most women. She did not let it destroy her as it did some men. 

“Amazing thing to see,” Jon Snow said from behind her, coming down the path to the corner of it that Daenerys stood upon. 

She continued watching her children fly. “I named them after my brothers, Viserys and Rhaegar. They are both gone now. One before I was born and the other in Essos.” She could still hear his screams sometimes. Still hear his whispers in the back of her mind in her dreams. _I loved you._ She turned to look at him, keeping her hand on the wall. “You lost two brothers as well?”

Jon Snow looked at her, glanced down and then back to the dragons. Varys had spoken of the North’s silence, of their solemn nature. She did not let it bother her, at least not outwardly. 

“People thought dragons were gone forever, but here they are,” she said, watching her children spin in the sky. Her children, these ones particularly, were more carefree than Drogon. They were not connected to their mother as he was. They did not know her worries or struggles, and yet they were as miraculous as their brother. She returned her gaze to the man before her. “Perhaps we should all be examining what we think we know.” 

Jon Snow stepped closer to the wall of the path, bowing his head slightly and stared out at the sea, possibly towards his ship. “You’ve been talking to Tyrion.” 

Daenerys turned her back to her children and faced Dragonstone. This was the place she had been born, the place her mother died. She wondered what her mother would think of her now, knowing that her last child, a daughter, was the one who would bring justice to her husband, to their house. “He is my Hand.”   
“He enjoys talking.” 

“We all enjoy what we’re good at.” 

“I don’t,” Jon Snow replied as easily as though it were breathing.

She turned to look at him, his profile. He had a long face, not handsome like Daario or Drogo. There was something noble about it though, as though he were meant to be a leader. So rarely were heroes described by their beauty, rather their character. She could see, in some way, why the North would want him as their king over the trueborn daughter of the usurper dog. He looked like him, at least that is what Tyrion and Varys told her. “You know I’m not going to let Cersei stay on the Iron Throne.” 

Anger flashed in his features and Daenerys felt something stir inside her, but she was not certain what. He looked at her with annoyance. “I never expected that you would.” 

“And I haven’t changed my mind about which kingdoms belong to the throne,” she said sternly. 

“I haven’t either, he replied flatly. 

Daenerys turned away from him and back to Dragonstone. He, in turn, looked North. He was not good at hiding his emotions. It would make him easy to read, which did not make for a good king. “I will allow you to mine the dragonglass,” she told him “And forge weapons from it.” Daenerys turned to look at him and he returned her gaze in shock. Good, let him think her generous. “Any resources or men you need, I will provide.” 

“Thank you.” 

Danerys turned back to the ocean, dismissing him. 

“Do you believe me then?” he asked. “About the NIght King and the Army of the Dead?” 

She did not look at him, instead watching her dragons fly. Drogon had joined them. “You better get to work, Jon Snow.” 

She listened as he walked away and Daenerys glanced at him, watching as he walked up the steps towards the castle, his cloak blowing carefully in the wind.

—

“We need to find Euron Greyjoy’s fleet and sink it,” Daenerys said as she and her advisors stood around the Painted Table. Missandei stood beside her, gazing at the map in interest. She had served Ser Barristan well when Daenerys had been gone. She had been there too when the old knight had died. She would be forever grateful for the girl in that regard, for being there for him when Daenerys could not. 

“Your grace,” Lord Varys said. “He’s already destroyed a good portion of our fleet. To send our remaining ships after him--” 

“I am not speaking about our ships,” she said, looking to Varys with purpose. He looked at her in concern and then looked at her Hand.

“But you’ll have to go yourself,” the Imp said cautiously. “Euron’s ships could be anywhere, he might already be close to King’s Landing. Even if he isn’t, you’d be flying around the open seas alone for who knows how long.” 

“I wouldn’t be alone,” she said in annoyance. Even after all she had accomplished, they still doubted her. “I’d have Drogon, Viserion, and Rhaegal. What can anyone do to them?” 

Missandei’s hand was then in her own and Daenerys looked down to see the young girl looking up at her in worry, squeezing her hand tightly. “They can still do something, your grace,” she said. “It only takes one arrow.” 

Daenerys squeezed the girl’s hand back. She would be fine. Nothing Euron Greyjoy or Cersei Lannister had could be used to harm her. 

“It’s too great a risk,” Tyrion said, pulling her attention away from Missandei, who dropped her hand. “You’re too important.” 

Daenerys breathed through her nose and looked down at the map of Westeros. “What about Casterly Rock?”

“The Unsullied will be there,” Lord Varys stated. “Their ships had broken from Yara Greyjoy’s ship. We should hear back from them soon.” 

“What will they face?” Daenerys asked for Missandei’s sake.

“A difficult situation,” Lord Varys replied. “They know we’re coming.”

“Yes,” the Imp said. “Cersei believes my sole purpose in life is to destroy House Lannister. She will be ready.” 

—

Daenerys walked along the path with Missandei outside of Dragonstone. Irri and Jhiqui were on Daenerys’ other side but the two were giggling to each other in Dothraki and glancing back at the guards behind them. Daenerys occasionally found them to be annoying, but they had been loyal to her from the beginning. They had been the first slaves she had freed. Daenerys couldn’t bear to be parted from them. 

“Your grace,” Missandei said as they walked. “Is there still no word from the Unsullied?”

“We shall hear from them soon,” Daenerys assured the girl. “Once the Rock is taken we will have the Westerlands and the Reach. We have Dorne already and the North does not appear to be anything to worry about. The Riverlands are in shambles and the Vale has been neutral since the beginning of the War of the Five Kings, or so Tyrion says. Once we have the Rock, your brother will return.” 

“Your grace,” came the northern accent of Jon Snow. He was not dressed in his cloak, but as he had been when he first arrived on Dragonstone. 

“ _He is not so plain_ ,” Jhiqui giggled to Daenerys.

A smirk crossed her lips as she looked to her handmaidens and then looked to one of her guards who stepped forward. She spoke in Dothraki, “ _It’s alright._ ” She walked down the stairs with Missandei, who was then stopped by Irri, who held a finger to her lips, smirking, winking at Daenerys. “Let Missandei come,” she said. “You may all be dismissed. Jon Snow has no weapons, after all.” 

Daenerys followed behind Jon Snow when she reached the bottom of the stairs with Missandei. He led her along the beach until they reached a cave where Ser Davos was waiting with a lit torch. Jon Snow took the torch from Ser Davos and began to walk into the cave. Daenerys and Missandei followed behind him with Ser Davos behind them. 

“I wanted you to see it before we start hacking it to bits,” the Northman said as he led them deeper into the cave.

The path opened into a cavern and stone twinkled against the firelight, like stars against the night. If Daenerys had not come from the morning air herself and had not known she was in a cave, she would have thought the sun had disappeared and the stars had graced themselves with their presence. It was a breathtaking sight. 

“So this is it,” Jon Snow said. “All we’ll ever need.” He paused as Daenerys continued to take it all in. “There’s something else I want to show you, your grace.” 

Daenerys followed him further into the cave. Jon Snow gave her the torch so she might see better herself and led her further in until they came upon a painted mural on the walls of the dragonglass. There were circles inside circles, shaped like solemn eyes. There were swirling patterns like a whirlpool etched upon the stone with paint or some sort of chalk or a mix of both. There were so many other patterns too that Daenerys could not put into words. 

Jon Snow placed his hand upon the wall. “The Children of the Forest made these.” 

“When?” 

“A very long time ago.” 

“They were right here,” she whispered in awe. “Standing where we’re standing. Before there were Targaryens or Starks or Lannisters. Maybe even before there were men.” 

“No,” Jon Snow replied. Daenerys looked at him in surprise at his certainty. She followed him deeper into the cave and saw a painting of human figures along those of tinier human-like ones. “They were here together, the Children and the First Men.” 

“Doing what?” Daenerys asked. “Fighting each other?”

Jon Snow motioned towards a wall and Daenerys shone the torch to it and her breath caught in her throat as the light flickered across the image. It was as though it were a nightmare. Harsh skeletal-like figures with hollowed eyes. 

“They fought together against their common enemy. Despite their differences, despite their suspicions, together.” Daenerys looked at him as he continued. “We need to do the same if we’re going to survive.” It was then that Daenerys saw that the eyes were not hollow. They were blue, a brilliant cold blue. “Because the enemy is real. It’s always been real.” 

Daenerys looked back at Jon Snow. “And you say you can’t defeat them without my armies and my dragons?” 

“The North defeated them once before,” Jon Snow replied. “But that was when we had the Children of the Forest, who are no more. It was when we had not suffered nearly a decade of loss. With you and your armies and your dragons, Westeros might have a fighting chance.” 

Daenerys stepped closer to him, the firelight catching in his eyes, turning them into a strange color, casting long shadows upon his face that made him appear far different than he usually did. “I will fight for you,” she said. “I will fight for the North when you bend the knee.” 

He looked almost disappointed, but not surprised. “My people won’t accept a southron ruler, not after all they’ve suffered. It is not just because it is you. They do not want anyone.” 

Daenerys stepped closer towards him. He was almost handsome in this light. “They will if their king does,” she told him in a hushed voice. “They chose you to protect them. Isn’t their survival more important than your pride?” 

“It is not my pride, your grace,” he said. “They follow me because they respect me, believe me. That will all be gone if I kneel. Your grace, my word and my knee will not give you the North.” 

“Then we are at an impasse,” Daenerys said, all magic from the scribbles and stone gone. 

“It appears we are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I do well?


	21. Rickon I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I just say, before this chapter starts, I really loved something about the last chapter is that you have Dany calling Jon, “Jon Snow” the same as Celia, and yet you get this totally different tone between the two saying his name.

He felt bad that he couldn’t remember her, couldn’t remember the sister Jon and Sansa did. While they had looked like his parents, like some vague shadow of a memory buried deep inside, it felt like Arya had been faceless, a girl who was like a boy running around the keep, ghosts of her laughter mingling in with Robb, who he also barely remembered either blank faces against blank walls. 

There had been tapestries there once as well. 

Arya had told him that it was okay that he didn’t remember. He had been a baby when they last saw each other, but Rickon didn’t like that excuse. 

He didn’t like that he didn’t remember his mother and father, Robb. He could barely remember Jon and Sansa without the memories blending with his parents and causing him to grow more and more confused. 

He remembered Bran, remembered being under Winterfell. He remembered the direwolves. He remembered Jojen and Meera Reed, even if the memory was not so clear. 

But he couldn’t show weakness. He was the king, even if he didn’t really feel like it. He was supposed to take care of Sansa and Celia, like Jon asked him to. And Bran and Arya now too. 

He had to be a strong and good king to protect his sisters and brother and Celia. It’s what Jon would want him to do and he would like to believe it’s what his parents would want from him as well. 

He had to be strong so that he could protect the people he cared about. He would just have to do his best and try to make sure that everyone was as safe as they possibly could be. 

“Are you okay?” Celia asked softly. 

Rickon wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. He hadn’t been crying at least. “Yeah.”

Celia squeezed his hand tightly. “We have to go practice with Lady Brienne,” she said. 

“Okay, we don’t want to have her waiting.”

They had allowed Celia and him to practice together since the kicking incident. The maester even said that it might be good for him to feel like he has someone to protect. Rickon didn’t quite get what that meant. He had people to protect. He had a kingdom to protect too. 

But he wasn’t going to argue against it. Having Celia close by made him feel more grounded in the present. Sometimes he would feel lost, like the blank memories were trying to push themselves forward. It was dizzying, but with Celia there, he knew when he was. 

And sometimes that made all the difference. 

—

When they made their way down to the training yard, Lady Brienne was already working with Podrick, although it seemed to be more of a demonstration for those watching. The lady knight kicked Podrick’s foot out from under him and he fell face first into the dirt. Celia winced beside him. That had to have hurt. 

“Don’t lunge,” the knight said sternly. 

Podrick pushed himself back up and picked up his sword and attacked again. Brienne blocked his blows and kicked his foot out again. 

“Don’t go where your enemy leads you,” she said to the crowd. 

Someone moved and Rickon glanced to see Arya begin to approach Lady Brienne. 

“Up,” the lady knight continued. She struck at Podrick, who blocked her quickly, however she hit him in the stomach with the hilt of her sword and Podrick landed on the ground hard. 

“And don’t—“

“Don’t fight someone like her in the first place,” Arya finished. 

Lady Brienne looked to Arya as Podrick picked up his sword and went to greet Rickon and Celia. 

“Nice sword,” Arya continued. 

“Nice dagger,” Lady Brienne replied. 

Arya unsheathed her dagger and flipped it between her fingers before giving it to Brienne to look at. 

“It’s been a while since I’ve trained,” Arya said. 

“I shall find a more ready knight to help with you, my lady,” Lady Brienne replied. 

“They haven’t beat the Hound, you did. I want to train with you.”

“I am demonstrating for the people right now, my lady. Perhaps later.”

“Perhaps it would be wise to show them what real fighting looks like.”

Lady Brienne glanced at Rickon and he realized that other people were looking at him too, even Celia. “I suppose it would be fine,” she said, uncertain of what else to say. 

Arya drew her sword, a thin one that almost looked like a needle. 

“You can’t use that, my lady,” Lady Brienne said. “It’s too small.”

“I won’t cut you,” Arya replied. “Don’t worry.”

The two women raised their swords ready to spar. Lady Brienne was the first to strike, but Arya sidestepped quickly and partied the attack. Lady Brienne moved again, in such a way to let the others watching properly see what Arya was doing. Arya continued to sidestep and dodge multiple strikes from Lady Brienne. Rickon’s sister then struck Lady Brienne’s hand causing her to lose her two-handed grip on her sword. The lady knight began to circle Arya, who held her sword behind her back, waiting. 

Lady Brienne struck Arya, who blocked it easily and spun to his Lady Brienne in the knee, causing the knight’s sword to strike the ground. Lady Brienne kicked Arya in the stomach and sent Rickon’s sister to the ground, but Arya moved quickly back up. Arya dropped her sword in the ensuing struggle. Before Lady Brienne was able to demonstrate a finishing blow, Arya had drawn her dagger and had it near Lady Brienne’s neck. 

The fight was over. 

“Who taught you to do that?” Lady Brienne asked. 

A smirk crossed Arya’s lips. “No one.”

Rickon narrowed his eyes. He felt like his sister was telling the truth, and yet he felt like it was almost a lie. 

—

“Rickon, let’s go practice your swordplay,” Arya said sitting on the floor next to him as he and Celia and their group began patching together leather for the armor. 

“I can’t,” he replied. “I’m busy.”

“You are a king, Rickon,” Arya replied. “You need to focus on the sword.”

“Lady Brienne will keep teaching me during my break, I need to help with this first.”

“The others can handle this,” Arya insisted. “What’s important is you learning how to defend yourself.”

“I need to help make sure that the fighters and the people can stay warm.”

“And it’s a good way to practice sewing a person,” Celia added cheerfully. 

Rickon’s lips twitched. “Sorry, Arya. Not right now. Later.”

—

Rickon was worried. They hadn’t heard from Jon in a while, just a raven informing them that he was almost at Dragonstone and then nothing. 

Bran told them that Jon was okay, that he was doing what was necessary and that he wasn’t betraying the heart of the North, but Rickon wasn’t even certain what that meant. 

He could see that Sansa was worried, Arya was anxious, Bran was calm, and Celia was nervous. 

Celia worried about him most of all. She said she was afraid of bad men hurting him. 

Rickon made sure she knew that Jon would be okay. Made sure that she knew Jon would come back soon. It reminded him of missing his mother. It reminded him of being smaller in Winterfell, small and waiting, wanting for his mother. 

“Jon will be back,” he told her. “I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter this time! Sorry!


End file.
